UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT   LOS  ANGELES 


THE  ROADMENDER 


Rolling  stretches  of  cloud-shadowed  down 


Frontispiece} 


v^K 


THE  ROADMENDER 
BY  MICHAEL  FAIRLESS 

ILLUSTRATED     WITH     TWENTY 
PHOTOGRAPHS     BY    WILL    F.    TAYLOR 


NEW  YORK 
E.  P.  BUTTON  &  CO. 

1922 


Printed  in  Creat  Rritai* 
ly  Turnbull  if  Shears,  Edinburgh 


. 

H 


A.  M.  D.  G. 

TO 
MY  MOTHER 

AND  TO  EARTH,  MY  MOTHER 
WHOM  I  LOVE 


284125 


FOREWORD  TO  THIS  EDITION 

THE  country  amid  which  Margaret  Fairless  Barber 
("Michael  Fairless")  wrote  "The  Roadmender "  is 
that  central  part  of  Sussex  drained  by  the  river  Adur, 
perhaps  the  least  known  of  the  three  main  rivers, 
Ouse,  Adur  and  Arun,  which  breach  the  South 
Downs.  From  Chanctonbury  Ring  to  Ditchling 
Beacon  the  Downs  belong  to  the  Adur,  and  this  is 
the  country  of  the  Roadmender.  Here,  from  under 
the  "  stunted  hawthorn,"  the  eye  looks  down  on  the 
one  side  to  the  "  little  church  "  on  the  Weald,  and 
on  the  other  to  the  more  distant  "to  and  fro  of  the 
sea."  Over  all  this  Wealden  valley  the  "  long  grey 
downs "  keep  watch,  and  on  the  inland  side  a 
constant  companion  of  the  roads  is  the  spire  of 
"  the  monastery  where  the  Bedesmen  of  St  Hugh 
watch  and  pray." 

Michael  Fairless  wrote  Parts  I  and  II  of  "  The 
Roadmender "  in  a  farmhouse  at  Mock  Bridge  on 
the  Adur  near  Henfield,  and  here  in  her  last  days 
she  lay  writing  "  The  White  Gate,"  looking  out  over 
the  "  pasture  bright  with  buttercups  where  the  cattle 
feed."  Here  she  died,  and  she  was  carried  to  the  grave 
"  under  the  firs  in  the  quiet  churchyard  "  at  Ashhurst, 
two  miles  away  across  the  river. 


CONTENTS 

FAOB 

THE  ROADMENDEB  ....  1 

OUT  OF  THE  SHADOW       ....          47 
AT  THE  WHITE  GATE       ....          91 


IX 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

ROLLING   STRETCHES   OF  CLOUD-SHADOWED 

DOWN  .....    Frontispiece 

TO   FACB  PARK 

THE   WHITE   WINDING   ROAD       ....  2 

THE   SOLITARY   COTTAGE  ....  6 

THE    LITTLE    CHURCH    AT    THE    FOOT    OF   THE    GREY- 

GREEN   DOWN  .....  8 

MY   NICHE   UNDER   THE   STUNTED   HAWTHORN  .  10 

SHEPHERDING   HIS    WHITE    SHEEP        .  .  12 


A  LITTLE  LONELY  COTTAGE  WHOSE  WINDOWS 
PEERED  AND  BLINKED  UNDER  OVERHANGING 
BROWS  OF  THATCH  .  .  .  .26 

THE   REEDED    WATERS   OF   THE   SEQUESTERED   POOL  32 

THE     MONASTERY    WHERE     THE    BEDESMEN    OF     Si 

HUGH   WATCH   AND   PRAY  .  .34 

THE      SUN      STRETCHED      THE      LONG     SHADOWS      IN 

SLANTING   BARS   ACROSS   THE   WHITE   HIGHWAY  38 

THE   GREAT   WHEEL  WAS   AT  REST        ...  40 

xi 


THE    ROADMENDER 

TO  FACK   PAOK 

THE  CRISP  RIME  OF  WINTER'S  BREATH        .  .        48 

THE  ALONENESS  OF  A  GREAT  FOREST  .  .         50 

THE     FIELD- GATE     THAT     LEADS      TO     THE     LOWER 

MEADOWS       ......  72 

A  HOST  OF  JOYOUS   YELLOW  TRUMPETERS     .  .  74 

IN  THE  DISTANCE   RISE   THE   GREAT  LONE   HEAVEN- 
WARD  HILLS  .....  84 

THE  LINE  OF  THE  UNTROUBLED  HILLS  STRONG  AND 

STILL   IN   THE   BROAD   SUNSHINE  .  94 


BUTTERCUPS,    WHERE   THE   CATTLE   FEED  .          100 

THE  GREAT  HORSES  MOVING  IN  SLOW  STEADY  PACE 

AS    THE   FARMER   TURNS   HIS   FURROW       .  .          102 

THERE  is  A  PLACE  WAITING  FOR  ME  UNDER  THE 

FIRS   IN   THE    QUIET   CHURCHYARD  .  .          104 


THE    ROADMENDER 


HBBHB 


The  white  winding  road 


I  HAVE  attained  my  ideal :  I  am  a  roadmender,  some 
say  stonebreaker.  Both  titles  are  correct,  but  the  one 
is  more  pregnant  than  the  other.  All  day  I  sit  by  the 
roadside  on  a  stretch  of  grass  under  a  high  hedge  of 
saplings  and  a  tangle  of  traveller's  joy,  woodbine, 
sweetbriar,  and  late  roses.  Opposite  me  is  a  white 
gate,  seldom  used,  if  one  may  judge  from  the  trail  of 
honeysuckle  growing  tranquilly  along  it :  I  know  now 
that  whenever  and  wherever  I  die  my  soul  will  pass 
out  through  this  white  gate ;  and  then,  thank  God,  I 
shall  not  have  need  to  undo  that  trail. 

In  our  youth  we  discussed  our  ideals  freely :  I 
wonder  how  many  beside  myself  have  attained,  or 
would  understand  my  attaining.  After  all,  what  do 
we  ask  of  life,  here  or  indeed  hereafter,  but  leave  to 
serve,  to  h've,  to  commune  with  our  fellow-men  and 
with  ourselves ;  and  from  the  lap  of  earth  to  look 
up  into  the  face  of  God  ?  All  these  gifts  are  mine 
as  I  sit  by  the  winding  white  road  and  serve  the  foot- 
steps of  my  fellows.  There  is  no  room  in  my  life  for 
avarice  or  anxiety ;  I  who  serve  at  the  altar  live  of  the 

3 


THE    ROADMENDER 

altar :  I  lack  nothing  but  have  nothing  over ;  and 
when  the  winter  of  life  comes  I  shall  join  the  company 
of  weary  old  men  who  sit  on  the  sunny  side  of  the 
workhouse  wall  and  wait  for  the  tender  mercies  of 
God. 

Just  now  it  is  the  summer  of  things ;  there  is  life 
and  music  everywhere — in  the  stones  themselves,  and 
I  live  to-day  beating  out  the  rhythmical  hammer-song 
of  The  Ring.  There  is  real  physical  joy  in  the  rise 
and  swing  of  the  arm,  in  the  jar  of  a  fair  stroke,  the 
split  and  scatter  of  the  quartz  :  I  am  learning  to  be 
ambidextrous,  for  why  should  Esau  sell  his  birthright 
when  there  is  enough  for  both  ?  Then  the  rest-hour 
comes,  bringing  the  luxurious  ache  of  tired  but  not 
weary  limbs  ;  and  I  lie  outstretched  and  renew  my 
strength,  sometimes  with  my  face  deep-nestled  in  the 
cool  green  grass,  sometimes  on  my  back  looking  up  into 
the  blue  sky  which  no  wise  man  would  wish  to  fathom. 

The  birds  have  no  fear  of  me ;  am  I  not  also  of  the 
brown  brethren  in  my  sober  fustian  livery  ?  They 
share  my  meals — at  least  the  little  dun-coated  Fran- 
ciscans do  ;  the  blackbirds  and  thrushes  care  not  a 
whit  for  such  simple  food  as  crumbs,  but  with  legs 
well  apart  and  claws  tense  with  purchase  they  disinter 
poor  brother  worm,  having  first  mocked  him  with  sound 
of  rain.  The  robin  that  lives  by  the  gate  regards  my 
4 


THE    ROADMENDER 

heap  of  stones  as  subject  to  his  special  inspection. 
He  sits  atop  and  practises  the  trill  of  his  summer  song 
until  it  shrills  above  and  through  the  metallic  clang 
of  my  strokes ;  and  when  I  pause  he  cocks  his  tail,  with 
a  humorous  twinkle  of  his  round  eye  which  means — 
44  What !  shirking,  big  brother  ?  " — and  I  fall,  ashamed, 
to  my  mending  of  roads. 

The  other  day,  as  I  lay  with  my  face  in  the  grass, 
I  heard  a  gentle  rustle,  and  raised  my  head  to  find 
a  hedge-snake  watching  me  fearless,  unwinking.  I 
stretched  out  my  hand,  picked  it  up  unresisting,  and 
put  it  in  my  coat  like  the  husbandman  of  old.  Was 
he  so  ill-rewarded,  I  wonder,  with  the  kiss  that  reveals 
secrets  ?  My  snake  slept  in  peace  while  I  hammered 
away  with  an  odd  quickening  of  heart  as  I  thought 
how  to  me,  as  to  Melampus,  had  come  the  messenger 
— had  come,  but  to  ears  deafened  by  centuries  of 
misrule,  blindness,  and  oppression ;  so  that,  with  all 
my  longing,  I  am  shut  out  of  the  wondrous  world 
where  walked  Melampus  and  the  Saint.  To  me  there 
is  no  suggestion  of  evil  in  the  little  silent  creatures, 
harmless,  or  deadly  only  with  the  Death  which  is 
Life.  The  beasts  who  turn  upon  us,  as  a  rule  maul 
and  tear  unreflectingly ;  with  the  snake  there  is  the 
swift,  silent  strike,  the  tiny,  tiny  wound,  then  sleep 
and  a  forgetting. 

5 


THE    ROADMENDER 

My  brown  friend,  with  its  message  unspoken,  slid 
away  into  the  grass  at  sundown  to  tell  its  tale  in  un- 
stopped ears ;  and  I,  my  task  done,  went  home  across 
the  fields  to  the  solitary  cottage  where  I  lodge.  It 
is  old  and  decrepit — two  rooms,  with  a  quasi-attic 
over  them  reached  by  a  ladder  from  the  kitchen  and 
reached  only  by  me.  It  is  furnished  with  the  luxuries 
of  life,  a  truckle  bed,  table,  chair,  and  huge  earthen- 
ware pan  which  I  fill  from  the  ice-cold  well  at  the  back 
of  the  cottage.  Morning  and  night  I  serve  with  the 
Gibeonites,  their  curse  my  blessing,  as  no  doubt  it 
was  theirs  when  their  hearts  were  purged  by  service. 
Morning  and  night  I  send  down  the  moss-grown  bucket 
with  its  urgent  message  from  a  dry  and  dusty  world ; 
the  chain  tightens  through  my  hand  as  the  liquid 
treasure  responds  to  the  messenger,  and  then  with 
creak  and  jangle — the  welcome  of  labouring  earth — 
the  bucket  slowly  nears  the  top  and  disperses  the 
treasure  in  the  waiting  vessels.  The  Gibeonites  were 
servants  in  the  house  of  God,  ministers  of  the  sacrament 
of  service  even  as  the  High  Priest  himself ;  and  I, 
sharing  their  high  office  of  servitude,  thank  God  that 
the  ground  was  accursed  for  my  sake,  for  surely  that 
curse  was  the  womb  of  all  unborn  blessing. 

The  old  widow  with  whom  I  lodge  has  been  deaf 
for  the  last  twenty  years.  She  speaks  in  the  strained 
6 


The  solitary  cottage 


THE    ROADMENDER 

high  voice  which  protests  against  her  own  infirmity,  and 
her  eyes  have  the  pathetic  look  of  those  who  search  in 
silence.  For  many  years  she  lived  alone  with  her  son, 
who  laboured  on  the  farm  two  miles  away.  He  met 
his  death  rescuing  a  cart-horse  from  its  burning  stable ; 
and  the  farmer  gave  the  cottage  rent  free  and  a  weekly 
half-crown  for  life  to  the  poor  old  woman  whose  dearest 
terror  was  the  workhouse.  With  my  shilling  a  week 
rent,  and  sharing  of  supplies,  we  live  in  the  lines  of 
comfort.  Of  death  she  has  no  fears,  for  in  the  long 
chest  in  the  kitchen  lie  a  web  of  coarse  white  linen, 
two  pennies  covered  with  the  same  to  keep  down  tired 
eyelids,  decent  white  stockings,  and  a  white  cotton 
sun-bonnet — a  decorous  death-suit  truly — and  enough 
money  in  the  little  bag  for  self-respecting  burial.  The 
farmer  buried  his  servant  handsomely — good  man,  he 
knew  the  love  of  reticent  grief  for  a  4  kind '  burial — 
and  one  day  Harry's  mother  is  to  lie  beside  him  in  the 
little  churchyard  which  has  been  a  cornfield,  and  may 
some  day  be  one  again. 


II 

ON  Sundays  my  feet  take  ever  the  same  way.  First 
my  temple  service,  and  then  five  miles  tramp  over  the 
tender,  dewy  fields,  with  their  ineffable  earthly  smell, 
until  I  reach  the  little  church  at  the  foot  of  the  grey- 
green  down.  Here,  every  Sunday,  a  young  priest  from 
a  neighbouring  village  says  Mass  for  the  tiny  hamlet, 
where  all  are  very  old  or  very  young — for  the  heyday 
of  life  has  no  part  under  the  long  shadow  of  the  hills, 
but  is  away  at  sea  or  in  service.  There  is  a  beautiful 
seemliness  in  the  extreme  youth  of  the  priest  who 
serves  these  aged  children  of  God.  He  bends  to  com- 
municate them  with  the  reverent  tenderness  of  a  son, 
and  reads  with  the  careful  intonation  of  far-seeing 
love.  To  the  old  people  he  is  the  son  of  their  old  age, 
God-sent  to  guide  their  tottering  footsteps  along  the 
highway  of  foolish  wayfarers ;  and  he,  with  his  youth 
and  strength,  wishes  no  better  task.  Service  ended, 
we  greet  each  other  friendly — for  men  should  not  be 
strange  in  the  acre  of  God  ;  and  I  pass  through  the  little 
hamlet  and  out  and  up  on  the  grey  down  beyond. 
Here,  at  the  last  gate,  I  pause  for  breakfast ;  and  then 
8 


The  little  church  at  the  foot  of  the  grey-green  down 


[8 


THE    ROADMENDER 

up  and  on  with  quickening  pulse,  and  evergreen  memory 
of  the  weary  war-worn  Greeks  who  broke  rank  to 
greet  the  great  blue  Mother-way  that  led  to  home.  I 
stand  on  the  summit  hatless,  the  wind  in  my  hair, 
the  smack  of  salt  on  my  cheek,  all  round  me  rolling 
stretches  of  cloud-shadowed  down,  no  sound  but  the 
shrill  mourn  of  the  peewit  and  the  gathering  of  the 
sea. 

The  hours  pass,  the  shadows  lengthen,  the  sheep- 
bells  clang ;  and  I  lie  in  my  niche  under  the  stunted 
hawthorn  watching  the  to  and  fro  of  the  sea,  and  JSolus 
shepherding  his  white  sheep  across  the  blue.  I  love 
the  sea  with  its  impenetrable  fathoms,  its  wash  and 
undertow,  and  rasp  of  shingle  sucked  anew.  I  love 
it  for  its  secret  dead  in  the  Caverns  of  Peace,  of  which 
account  must  be  given  when  the  books  are  opened  and 
earth  and  heaven  have  fled  away.  Yet  in  my  love 
there  is  a  paradox,  for  as  I  watch  the  restless,  in- 
effective waves  I  think  of  the  measureless,  reflective 
depths  of  the  still  and  silent  Sea  of  Glass,  of  the  dead, 
small  and  great,  rich  or  poor,  with  the  works  which 
follow  them,  and  of  the  Voice  as  the  voice  of  many 
waters,  when  the  multitude  of  one  mind  rends  heaven 
with  alleluia :  and  I  lie  so  still  that  I  almost  feel  the 
kiss  of  White  Peace  on  my  mouth.  Later  still,  when 
the  flare  of  the  sinking  sun  has  died  away  and  the 

9 


THE    ROADMENDER 

stars  rise  out  of  a  veil  of  purple  cloud,  I  take  my  way 
home,  down  the  slopes,  through  the  hamlet,  and  across 
miles  of  sleeping  fields  over  which  night  has  thrown 
her  shifting  web  of  mist — home  to  the  little  attic,  the 
deep,  cool  well,  the  kindly  wrinkled  face  with  its  listen- 
ing eyes — peace  in  my  heart  and  thankfulness  for  the 
rhythm  of  the  road. 

Monday  brings  the  joy  of  work,  second  only  to  the 
Sabbath  of  rest,  and  I  settle  to  my  heap  by  the  white 
gate.  Soon  I  hear  the  distant  stamp  of  horsehoofs, 
heralding  the  grind  and  roll  of  the  wheels  which  reaches 
me  later — a  heavy  flour-waggon  with  a  team  of  four 
great  gentle  horses,  gay  with  brass  trappings  and  scarlet 
earcaps.  On  the  top  of  the  craftily  piled  sacks  lies 
the  white-clad  waggoner,  a  pink  in  his  mouth  which 
he  mumbles  meditatively,  and  the  reins  looped  over 
the  inactive  whip — why  should  he  drive  a  willing  team 
that  knows  the  journey  and  responds  as  strenuously 
to  a  cheery  chirrup  as  to  the  well-directed  lash  ?  We 
greet  and  pass  the  time  of  day,  and  as  he  mounts  the 
rise  he  calls  back  a  warning  of  coming  rain.  I  am 
already  white  with  dust  as  he  with  flour,  sacramental 
dust,  the  outward  and  visible  sign  of  the  stir  and  beat 
of  the  heart  of  labouring  life. 

Next  to  pass  down  the  road  is  an  anxious  ruffled 
hen,  her  speckled  breast  astir  with  maternal  troubles. 
10 


1 


My  niche  under  the  stunted  hawthorn 


[10 


THE    ROADMENDER 

She  walks  delicately,  lifting  her  feet  high  and  glancing 
furtively  from  side  to  side  with  comb  low  dressed. 
The  sight  of  man,  the  heartless  egg-collector,  from  whose 
haunts  she  has  fled,  wrings  from  her  a  startled  cluck, 
and  she  makes  for  the  white  gate,  climbs  through, 
and  disappears.  I  know  her  feelings  too  well  to  intrude. 
Many  times  already  has  she  hidden  herself,  amassed 
four  or  five  precious  treasures,  brooding  over  them 
with  anxious  hope ;  and  then,  after  a  brief  desertion 
to  seek  the  necessary  food,  she  has  returned  to  find 
her  efforts  at  concealment  vain,  her  treasures  gone. 
At  last,  with  the  courage  of  despair  she  has  resolved 
to  brave  the  terrors  of  the  unknown  and  seek  a  haunt 
beyond  the  tyranny  of  man.  I  will  watch  over  her 
from  afar,  and  when  her  mother-hope  is  fulfilled  I  will 
marshal  her  and  her  brood  back  to  the  farm  where 
she  belongs ;  for  what  end  I  care  not  to  think,  it  is  of 
the  mystery  which  lies  at  the  heart  of  things ;  and  we 
are  all  God's  beasts,  says  St  Augustine. 

Here  is  my  stone-song,  a  paraphrase  of  the  Treasure 
Motif. 


What    a    wonderful    work    Wagner    has    done    for 
humanity  in  translating  the  toil  of  life  into  the  read- 

ii 


THE    ROADMENDER 

able  script  of  music !  For  those  who  seek  the  tale  of 
other  worlds  his  magic  is  silent ;  but  earth-travail 
under  his  wand  becomes  instinct  with  rhythmic  song 
to  an  accompaniment  of  the  elements,  and  the  blare 
and  crash  of  the  bottomless  pit  itself.  The  Pilgrims' 
March  is  the  sad  sound  of  footsore  men  ;  the  San  Graal 
the  tremulous  yearning  of  servitude  for  richer,  deeper 
bondage.  The  yellow,  thirsty  flames  lick  up  the  willing 
sacrifice,  the  water  wails  the  secret  of  the  river  and 
the  sea ;  the  birds  and  beasts,  the  shepherd  with  his 
pipe,  the  underground  life  in  rocks  and  caverns,  all 
cry  their  message  to  this  nineteenth- century  toiling, 
labouring  world — and  to  me  as  I  mend  my  road. 

Two  tramps  come  and  fling  themselves  by  me  as  I 
eat  my  noonday  meal.  The  one,  red-eyed,  furtive, 
lies  on  his  side  with  restless,  clutching  hands  that  tear 
and  twist  and  torture  the  living  grass,  while  his  lips 
mutter  incoherently.  The  other  sits  stooped,  bare- 
footed, legs  wide  apart,  his  face  grey,  almost  as  grey 
as  his  stubbly  beard ;  and  it  is  not  long  since  Death 
looked  him  in  the  eyes.  He  tells  me  querulously  of  a 
two  hundred  miles  tramp  since  early  spring,  of  search 
for  work,  casual  jobs  with  more  kicks  than  halfpence, 
and  a  brief  but  blissful  sojourn  in  a  hospital  bed,  from 
which  he  was  dismissed  with  sentence  passed  upon 
him.  For  himself,  he  is  determined  to  die  on  the  road 
12 


-<Eolus  shepherding  his  white  sheep 


[12 


THE    ROADMENDER 

under  a  hedge,  where  a  man  can  see  and  breathe.  His 
anxiety  is  all  for  his  fellow ;  he  has  said  he  will  "  do 
for  a  man  " ;  he  wants  to  "  swing,"  to  get  out  of  his 
"  dog's  life."  I  watch  him  as  he  lies,  this  Ishmael 
and  would-be  Lamech.  Ignorance,  hunger,  terror,  the 
exhaustion  of  past  generations,  have  done  their  work. 
The  man  is  mad,  and  would  kill  his  fellow-man. 

Presently  we  part,  and  the  two  go,  dogged  and  foot- 
sore, down  the  road  which  is  to  lead  them  into  the 
great  silence. 


Ill 

YESTEEDAY  was  a  day  of  encounters. 

First,  early  in  the  morning,  a  young  girl  came  down 
the  road  on  a  bicycle.  Her  dressguard  was  loose,  and 
she  stopped  to  ask  for  a  piece  of  string.  When  I  had 
tied  it  for  her  she  looked  at  me,  at  my  worn  dusty 
clothes  and  burnt  face ;  and  then  she  took  a  Niphetos 
rose  from  her  belt  and  laid  it  shyly  in  my  dirty  dis- 
figured palm.  I  bared  my  head,  and  stood  hat  in  hand 
looking  after  her  as  she  rode  away  up  the  hill.  Then 
I  took  my  treasure  and  put  it  in  a  nest  of  cool  dewy 
grass  under  the  hedge.  Ecce  ancilla  Domini. 

My  next  visitor  was  a  fellow-worker  on  his  way  to 
a  job  at  the  cross-roads.  He  stood  gazing  meditatively 
at  my  heap  of  stones. 

"  'Ow  long  'ave  yer  bin  at  this  job  that  y'ere  in  such 
a  hurry  ?  " 

I  stayed  my  hammer  to  answer — "  Four  months." 

"  Seen  better  days  ?  " 

"  Never,"  I  said  emphatically,  and  punctuated  the 
remark  with  a  stone  split  neatly  in  four. 

The  man  surveyed  me  in  silence  for  a  moment ; 
14 


THE    ROADMENDER 

then  he  said  slowly,  "  Mean  ter  say  yer  like  crackin' 
these  blamed  stones  to  fill  'oles  some  other  fool's  made  ?  " 

I  nodded. 

"  Well,  that  beats  everything.  Now,  I  'ave  seen 
better  days ;  worked  in  a  big  brewery  over  near  Maid- 
stone — a  town  that,  and  something  doing ;  and  now, 
'ere  I  am,  'ammering  me  'eart  out  on  these  blasted 
stones  for  a  bit  o'  bread  and  a  pipe  o'  baccy  once  a 
week — it  ain't  good  enough."  He  pulled  a  blackened 
clay  from  his  pocket  and  began  slowly  filling  it  with 
rank  tobacco ;  then  he  lit  it  carefully  behind  his 
battered  hat,  put  the  spent  match  back  in  his  pocket, 
rose  to  his  feet,  hitched  his  braces,  and,  with  a  silent 
nod  to  me,  went  on  to  his  job. 

Why  do  we  give  these  tired  children,  whose  minds 
move  slowly,  whose  eyes  are  holden  that  they  cannot 
read  the  Book,  whose  hearts  are  full  of  sore  resentment 
against  they  know  not  what,  such  work  as  this  to  do 
— hammering  their  hearts  out  for  a  bit  of  bread  ?  All 
the  pathos  of  unreasoning  labour  rings  in  these  few 
words.  We  fit  the  collar  on  unwilling  necks ;  and 
when  their  service  is  over  we  bid  them  go  out  free ; 
but  we  break  the  good  Mosaic  law  and  send  them  away 
empty.  What  wonder  there  is  so  little  willing  service, 
so  few  ears  ready  to  be  thrust  through  against  the 
master's  door. 

15 


THE    ROADMENDER 

The  swift  stride  of  civilisation  is  leaving  behind 
individual  effort,  and  turning  man  into  the  Daemon 
of  a  machine.  To  and  fro  in  front  of  the  long  loom, 
lifting  a  lever  at  either  end,  paces  he  who  once  with 
painstaking  intelligence  drove  the  shuttle.  Then  he 
tasted  the  joy  of  completed  work,  that  which  his  eye 
had  looked  upon,  and  his  hands  had  handled;  now 
his  work  is  as  little  finished  as  the  web  of  Penelope. 
Once  the  reaper  grasped  the  golden  corn  stems,  and 
with  dexterous  sweep  of  sickle  set  free  the  treasure  of 
the  earth.  Once  the  creatures  of  the  field  were  known 
to  him,  and  his  eye  caught  the  flare  of  scarlet  and  blue 
as  the  frail  poppies  and  sturdy  corn-cockles  laid  down 
their  beauty  at  his  feet ;  now  he  sits  serene  on  Jugger- 
naut's car,  its  guiding  Daemon,  and  the  field  is  silent 
to  him. 

As  with  the  web  and  the  grain  so  with  the  wood  and 
stone  in  the  treasure-house  of  our  needs.  The  ground 
was  accursed  for  our  sake  that  in  the  sweat  of  our  brow 
we  might  eat  bread.  Now  the  many  live  in  the  brain- 
sweat  of  the  few ;  and  it  must  be  so,  for  as  little  as 
great  King  Cnut  could  stay  the  sea  until  it  had  reached 
the  appointed  place,  so  little  can  we  raise  a  barrier  to 
the  wave  of  progress,  and  say,  "  Thus  far  and  no  further 
shalt  thou  come." 

What  then  ?  This  at  least ;  if  we  live  in  an  age  of 
16 


THE    ROADMENDER 

mechanism  let  us  see  to  it  that  we  are  a  race  of  intelligent 
mechanics  ;  and  if  man  is  to  be  the  Daemon  of  a  machine 
let  him  know  the  setting  of  the  knives,  the  rise  of  the 
piston,  the  part  that  each  wheel  and  rod  plays  in  the 
economy  of  the  whole,  the  part  that  he  himself  plays, 
co-operating  with  it.  Then,  when  he  has  lived  and 
served  intelligently,  let  us  give  him  of  our  flocks  and 
of  our  floor  that  he  may  learn  to  rest  in  the  lengthening 
shadows  until  he  is  called  to  his  work  above. 

So  I  sat,  hammering  out  my  thoughts,  and  with  them 
the  conviction  that  stonebreaking  should  be  allotted  to 
minor  poets  or  vagrant  children  of  nature  like  myself, 
never  to  such  tired  folk  as  my  poor  mate  at  the  cross- 
roads and  his  fellows. 

At  noon,  when  I  stopped  for  my  meal,  the  sun  was 
baking  the  hard  white  road  in  a  pitiless  glare.  Several 
waggons  and  carts  passed,  the  horses  sweating  and 
straining,  with  drooping,  fly-tormented  ears.  The  men 
for  the  most  part  nodded  slumberously  on  the  shaft, 
seeking  the  little  shelter  the  cart  afforded ;  but  one 
shuffled  in  the  white  dust,  with  an  occasional  chirrup 
and  friendly  pressure  on  the  tired  horse's  neck. 

Then  an  old  woman  and  a  small  child  appeared  in 

sight,  both  with  enormous  sun-bonnets  and  carrying 

baskets.    As  they  came  up  with  me  the  woman  stopped 

and  swept  her  face  with  her  hand,  while  the  child, 

B  17 


THE    ROADMENDER 

depositing  the  basket  in  the  dust  with  great  care,  wiped 
her  little  sticky  fingers  on  her  pinafore.  Then  the 
shady  hedge  beckoned  them  and  they  came  and  sat 
down  near  me.  The  woman  looked  about  seventy,  tall, 
angular,  dauntless,  good  for  another  ten  years  of  hard 
work.  The  little  maid — her  only  grandchild,  she  told 
me — was  just  four,  her  father  away  soldiering,  and  the 
mother  died  in  childbed,  so  for  four  years  the  child 
had  known  no  other  guardian  or  playmate  than  the 
old  woman.  She  was  not  the  least  shy,  but  had  the 
strange  self-possession  which  comes  from  associating 
with  one  who  has  travelled  far  on  life's  journey. 

"  I  couldn't  leave  her  alone  in  the  house,"  said  her 
grandmother,  "  and  she  wouldn't  leave  the  kitten  for 
fear  it  should  be  lonesome  " — with  a  humorous,  tender 
glance  at  the  child — "  but  it's  a  long  tramp  in  the  heat 
for  the  little  one,  and  we've  another  mile  to  go." 

"  Will  you  let  her  bide  here  till  you  come  back  ?  " 
I  said.  "  She'll  be  all  right  by  me." 

The  old  lady  hesitated. 

"  Will  'ee  stay  by  him,  dearie  ?  "  she  said. 

The  small  child  nodded,  drew  from  her  miniature 
pocket  a  piece  of  sweetstuff,  extracted  from  the  basket 
a  small  black  cat,  and  settled  in  for  the  afternoon. 
Her  grandmother  rose,  took  her  basket,  and,  with  a  nod 
and  "  Thank  'ee  kindly,  mister,"  went  off  down  the  road. 
18 


THE    ROADMENDER 

I  went  back  to  my  work  a  little  depressed — why  had 
I  not  white  hair  ? — for  a  few  minutes  had  shown  me 
that  I  was  not  old  enough  for  the  child  despite  my  forty 
years.  She  was  quite  happy  with  the  little  black  cat, 
which  lay  in  the  small  lap  blinking  its  yellow  eyes  at 
the  sun ;  and  presently  an  old  man  came  by,  lame  and 
bent,  with  gnarled  twisted  hands,  leaning  heavily  on 
his  stick. 

He  greeted  me  in  a  high,  piping  voice,  limped  across 
to  the  child,  and  sat  down. 

"  Your  little  maid,  mister  ?  "  he  said. 

I  explained. 

"  Ah,"  he  said,  "  I've  left  a  little  darlin'  like  this  at 
'ome.  It's  'ard  on  us  old  folks  when  we're  one  too 
many  ;  but  the  little  mouths  must  be  filled,  and  my  son, 
'e  said  'e  didn't  see  they  could  keep  me  on  the  arf- 
crown,  with  another  child  on  the  way ;  so  I'm  tramping 

to  N ,  to  the  House ;  but  it's  a  'ard  pinch,  leavin* 

the  little  ones." 

I  looked  at  him — a  typical  countryman,  with  white 
hair,  mild  blue  eyes,  and  a  rosy,  childish,  unwrinkled 
face. 

"  I'm  eighty-four,"  he  went  on,  "  and  terrible  bad 
with  the  rheumatics  and  my  chest.  Maybe  it'll  not  be 
long  before  the  Lord  remembers  me." 

The  child  crept  close  and  put  a  sticky  little  hand 

19 


THE    ROADMENDER 

confidingly  into  the  tired  old  palm.  The  two  looked 
strangely  alike,  for  the  world  seems  much  the  same  to 
those  who  leave  it  behind  as  to  those  who  have  but 
taken  the  first  step  on  its  circular  pathway. 

'  'Ook  at  my  kitty,"  she  said,  pointing  to  the  small 
creature  in  her  lap.  Then,  as  the  old  man  touched  it 
with  trembling  fingers  she  went  on — "  'Oo  isn't  my 
grandad ;  he's  away  in  the  sky,  but  I'll  kiss  'oo." 

I  worked  on,  hearing  at  intervals  the  old  piping  voice 
and  the  child-treble,  much  of  a  note ;  and  thinking  of 
the  blessings  vouchsafed  to  the  simple  old  age  which 
crowns  a  harmless  working-life  spent  in  the  fields. 
The  two  under  the  hedge  had  everything  in  common 
and  were  boundlessly  content  together,  the  sting  of 
the  knowledge  of  good  and  evil  past  for  the  one,  and 
for  the  other  still  to  come  ;  while  I  stood  on  the  battle- 
field of  the  world,  the  flesh,  and  the  devil,  though, 
thank  God,  with  my  face  to  the  foe. 

The  old  man  sat  resting :  I  had  promised  him  a  lift 
with  my  friend  the  driver  of  the  flour-cart,  and  he  was 
almost  due  when  the  child's  grandmother  came  down 
the  road. 

When  she  saw  my  other  visitor  she  stood  amazed. 

"  What,  Richard  Hunton,  that  worked  with  my  old 
man  years  ago  up  at  Ditton,  whatever  are  you  doin* 
all  these  miles  from  your  own  place  ?  " 
20 


THE    ROADMENDER 

"  Is  it  Eliza  Jakes  ?  " 

He  looked  at  her  dazed,  doubtful. 

"  An'  who  else  should  it  be  ?  Where's  your  memory 
gone,  Richard  Hunton,  and  you  not  such  a  great  age 
either  ?  Where  are  you  stayin'  ?  " 

Shame  overcame  him ;  his  lips  trembled,  his  mild 
blue  eyes  filled  with  tears.  I  told  the  tale  as  I  had 
heard  it,  and  Mrs  Jakes's  indignation  was  good  to  see. 

"  Not  keep  you  on  'ah*  a  crown !  Send  you  to  the 
House  !  May  the  Lord  forgive  them !  You  wouldn't 
eat  no  more  than  a  fair-sized  cat,  and  not  long  for  this 
world  either,  that's  plain  to  see.  No,  Richard  Hunton, 
you  don't  go  to  the  House  while  I'm  above  ground ; 
it'd  make  my  good  man  turn  to  think  of  it.  You'll 
come  'ome  with  me  and  the  little  'un  there.  I've  my 
washin',  and  a  bit  put  by  for  a  rainy  day,  and  a  bed 
to  spare,  and  the  Lord  and  the  parson  will  see  I  don't 
come  to  want." 

She  stopped  breathless,  her  defensive  motherhood  in 
arms. 

The  old  man  said  quaveringly,  in  the  pathetic, 
grudging  phrase  of  the  poor,  which  veils  their  gratitude 
while  it  testifies  their  independence,  "  Maybe  I  might 
as  well."  He  rose  with  difficulty,  picked  up  his  bundle 
and  stick,  the  small  child  replaced  the  kitten  in  its 
basket,  and  thrust  her  hand  in  her  new  friend's. 


THE    ROADMENDER 

"  Then  'oo  is  grandad  turn  back,"  she  said. 

Mrs  Jakes  had  been  fumbling  in  her  pocket,  and 
extracted  a  penny,  which  she  pressed  on  me. 

"  It's  little  enough,  mister,"  she  said. 

Then,  as  I  tried  to  return  it :  "  Nay,  I've  enough, 
and  yours  is  poor  paid  work." 

I  hope  I  shall  always  be  able  to  keep  that  penny ; 
and  as  I  watched  the  three  going  down  the  dusty  white 
road,  with  the  child  in  the  middle,  I  thanked  God  for 
the  Brotherhood  of  the  Poor. 


IV 

YESTERDAY  a  funeral  passed,  from  the  workhouse  at 

N ,  a  quaint  sepulture  without  solemnities.    The 

rough,  ungarnished  coffin  of  stained  deal  lay  bare  and 
unsightly  on  the  floor  of  an  old  market-cart ;  a  woman 
sat  beside,  steadying  it  with  her  feet.  The  husband 
drove ;  and  the  most  depressed  of  the  three  was 
the  horse,  a  broken-kneed,  flea-bitten  grey.  It  was 
pathetic,  this  bringing  home  in  death  of  the  old  father 
whom,  while  he  lived,  they  had  been  too  poor  to  house  ; 
it  was  at  no  small  sacrifice  that  they  had  spared  him 
that  terror  of  old  age,  a  pauper's  grave,  and  brought 
him  to  lie  by  his  wife  in  our  quiet  churchyard.  They 
felt  no  emotion,  this  husband  and  wife,  only  a  dull 
sense  of  filial  duty  done,  respectability  preserved ;  and 
above  and  through  all,  the  bitter  but  necessary  count- 
ing the  cost  of  this  last  bed. 

It  is  strange  how  pagan  many  of  us  are  in  our 
beliefs.  True,  the  funeral  libations  have  made  way  for 
the  comfortable  bake-meats ;  still,  to  the  large  majority 
Death  is  Pluto,  king  of  the  dark  Unknown  whence  no 
traveller  returns,  rather  than  Azrael,  brother  and  friend, 

23 


lord  of  tliis  mansion  of  life.  Strange  how  men  shun 
him  as  he  waits  in  the  shadow,  watching  our  puny 
straining  after  immortality,  sending  his  comrade  sleep 
to  prepare  us  for  himself.  When  the  hour  strikes  he 
comes — very  gently,  very  tenderly,  if  we  will  but  have 
it  so — folds  the  tired  hands  together,  takes  the  way- 
worn feet  in  his  broad  strong  palm ;  and  lifting  us  in 
his  wonderful  arms  he  bears  us  swiftly  down  the  valley 
and  across  the  waters  of  Remembrance. 

Very  pleasant  art  thou,  O  Brother  Death,  thy  love 
is  wonderful,  passing  the  love  of  women. 

****** 

To-day  I  have  lived  in  a  whirl  of  dust.  To-morrow 

is  the  great  annual  Cattle  Fair  at  E ,  and  through 

the  long  hot  hours  the  beasts  from  all  the  district 
round  have  streamed  in  broken  procession  along  my 
road,  to  change  hands  or  to  die.  Surely  the  lordship 
over  creation  implies  wise  and  gentle  rule  for  intelligent 
use,  not  the  pursuit  of  a  mere  immediate  end,  without 
any  thought  of  community  in  the  great  sacrament  of  life. 

For  the  most  part  mystery  has  ceased  for  this  work- 
ing Western  world,  and  with  it  reverence.  Coventry 
Patmore  says :  "  God  clothes  Himself  actually  and 
literally  with  His  whole  creation.  Herbs  take  up  and 
assimilate  minerals,  beasts  assimilate  herbs,  and  God, 
in  the  Incarnation  and  its  proper  Sacrament,  assimilates 
24 


THE    ROADMENDER 

us,  who,  says  St  Augustine,  *  are  God's  beasts.'  "  It 
is  man  in  his  blind  self-seeking  who  separates  woof 
from  weft  in  the  living  garment  of  God,  and  loses  the 
more  as  he  neglects  the  outward  and  visible  signs  of  a 
world-wide  grace. 

In  olden  days  the  herd  led  his  flock,  going  first  in 
the  post  of  danger  to  defend  the  creatures  he  had  weaned 
from  their  natural  habits  for  his  various  uses.  Now 
that  good  relationship  has  ceased  for  us  to  exist,  man 
drives  the  beasts  before  him,  means  to  his  end,  but 
with  no  harmony  between  end  and  means.  All  day 
long  the  droves  of  sheep  pass  me  on  their  lame  and 
patient  way,  no  longer  freely  and  instinctively  follow- 
ing a  protector  and  forerunner,  but  driven,  impelled  by 
force  and  resistless  will — the  same  will  which  once  went 
before  without  force.  They  are  all  trimmed  as  much 
as  possible  to  one  pattern,  and  all  make  the  same  sad 
plaint.  It  is  a  day  on  which  to  thank  God  for  the 
unknown  tongue.  The  drover  and  his  lad  in  dusty 
blue  coats  plod  along  stolidly,  deaf  and  blind  to  all  but 
the  way  before  them ;  no  longer  wielding  the  crook, 
instrument  of  deliverance,  or  at  most  of  gentle  compul- 
sion, but  armed  with  a  heavy  stick  and  mechanically 
dealing  blows  on  the  short  thick  fleeces ;  without  evil 
intent  because  without  thought — it  is  the  ritual  of  the 
trade. 

25 


THE    ROADMENDER 

Of  all  the  poor  dumb  pilgrims  of  the  road  the  bullocks 
are  the  most  terrible  to  see.  They  are  not  patient, 
but  go  most  unwillingly  with  lowered  head  and  furtive 
sideways  motion,  in  their  eyes  a  horror  of  great  fear. 
The  sleek  cattle,  knee  deep  in  pasture,  massed  at 
the  gate,  and  stared  mild-eyed  and  with  inquiring 
bellow  at  the  retreating  drove ;  but  these  passed 
without  answer  on  to  the  Unknown,  and  for  them  it 
spelt  death. 

Behind  a  squadron  of  sleek,  well-fed  cart-horses, 
formed  in  fours,  with  straw  braid  in  mane  and  tail, 
came  the  ponies,  for  the  most  part  a  merry  company. 
Long  strings  of  rusty,  shaggy  two-year-olds,  unbroken, 
unkempt,  the  short  Down  grass  still  sweet  on  their 
tongues  ;  full  of  fun,  frolic,  and  wickedness,  biting 
and  pulling,  casting  longing  eyes  at  the  hedgerows. 
The  boys  appear  to  recognise  them  as  kindred  spirits, 
and  are  curiously  forbearing  and  patient.  Soon  both 
ponies  and  boys  vanish  in  a  white  whirl,  and  a  long 
line  of  carts,  which  had  evidently  waited  for  the  dust 
to  subside,  comes  slowly  up  the  incline.  For  the  most 
part  they  carry  the  pigs  and  fowls,  carriage  folk  of  the 
road.  The  latter  are  hot,  crowded,  and  dusty  under 
the  open  netting ;  the  former  for  the  most  part  cheer- 
fully reraonstrative. 

I  drew  a  breath  of  relief  as  the  noise  of  wheels  died 
26 


A  little  lonely  cottage 


[26 


THE    ROADMENDER 

away  and  my  road  sank  into  silence.  The  hedgerows 
are  no  longer  green  but  white  and  choked  with  dust, 
a  sight  to  move  good  sister  Rain  to  welcome  tears. 
The  birds  seem  to  have  fled  before  the  noisy  confusion. 
I  wonder  whether  my  snake  has  seen  and  smiled  at 
the  clumsy  ruling  of  the  lord  he  so  little  heeds  ?  I 
turned  aside  through  the  gate  to  plunge  face  and  hands 
into  the  cool  of  the  sheltered  grass  that  side  the  hedge, 
and  then  rested  my  eyes  on  the  stretch  of  green  I  had 
lacked  all  day.  The  rabbits  had  apparently  played 
and  browsed  unmindful  of  the  stir,  and  were  still 
flirting  their  white  tails  along  the  hedgerows ;  a  lark 
rose,  another  and  another,  and  I  went  back  to  my 
road.  Peace  still  reigned,  for  the  shadows  were 
lengthening,  and  there  would  be  little  more  traffic 
for  the  fair.  I  turned  to  my  work,  grateful  for  the 
stillness,  and  saw  on  the  white  stretch  of  road  a  lone 
old  man  and  a  pig.  Surely  I  knew  that  tall  figure 
in  the  quaint  grey  smock,  surely  I  knew  the  face, 
furrowed  like  nature's  face  in  springtime,  and  crowned 
by  a  round,  soft  hat  ?  And  the  pig,  the  black  pig 
walking  decorously  free  ?  Ay,  I  knew  them. 

In  the  early  spring  I  took  a  whole  holiday  and  a 
long  tramp ;  and  towards  afternoon,  tired  and  thirsty, 
sought  water  at  a  little  lonely  cottage  whose  windows 
peered  and  blinked  under  overhanging  brows  of  thatch. 

27 


THE    ROADMENDER 

I  had,  not  the  water  I  asked  for,  but  milk  and  a  bowl 
of  sweet  porridge  for  which  I  paid  only  thanks ;  and 
stayed  for  a  chat  with  my  kindly  hosts.  They  were 
a  quaint  old  couple  of  the  kind  rarely  met  with  now- 
adays. They  enjoyed  a  little  pension  from  the  Squire 
and  a  garden  in  which  vegetables  and  flowers  lived 
side  by  side  in  friendliest  fashion.  Bees  worked  and 
sang  over  the  thyme  and  marjoram,  blooming  early 
in  a  sunny  nook ;  and  in  a  homely  sty  lived  a  solemn 
black  pig,  a  pig  with  a  history. 

It  was  no  common  utilitarian  pig,  but  the  honoured 
guest  of  the  old  couple,  and  it  knew  it.  A  year  before, 
their  youngest  and  only  surviving  child,  then  a  man 
of  five-and-twenty,  had  brought  his  mother  the  result 
of  his  savings  in  the  shape  of  a  fine  young  pig :  a 
week  later  he  lay  dead  of  the  typhoid  that  scourged 
Maidstone.  Hence  the  pig  was  sacred,  cared  for  and 
loved  by  this  Darby  and  Joan. 

"  Ee  be  mos'  like  a  child  to  me  and  the  mother,  an* 
mos'  as  sensible  as  a  Christian,  ee  be,"  the  old  man  had 
said ;  and  I  could  hardly  credit  my  eyes  when  I  saw 
the  tall  bent  figure  side  by  side  with  the  black  pig, 
coming  along  my  road  on  such  a  day. 

I  hailed  the  old  man,  and  both  turned  aside ;  but 
he  gazed  at  me  without  remembrance. 

I  spoke  of  the  pig  and  its  history.  He  nodded 
28 


THE    ROADMENDER 

wearily.     "  Ay,  ay,  lad,  you've  got  it ;   'tis  poor  Dick's 
pig  right  enow." 

"  But  you're  never  going  to  take  it  to  E ?" 

"  Ay,  but  I  be,  and  comin'  back  alone,  if  the  Lord 
be  marciful.  The  missus  has  been  terrible  bad  this 
two  months  and  more ;  Squire's  in  foreign  parts ; 
and  food-stuffs  such  as  the  old  woman  wants  is  hard 
buying  for  poor  folks.  The  stocking's  empty,  now 
'tis  the  pig  must  go,  and  I  believe  he'd  be  glad  for 
to  do  the  missus  a  turn ;  she  were  terrible  good  to 
him,  were  the  missus,  and  fond,  too.  I  dursn't  tell 
her  he  was  to  go ;  she'd  sooner  starve  than  lose  poor 
Dick's  pig.  Well,  we'd  best  be  movin' ;  'tis  a  fairish 
step." 

The  pig  followed  comprehending  and  docile,  and  as 
the  quaint  couple  passed  from  sight  I  thought  I  heard 
Brother  Death  stir  in  the  shadow.  He  is  a  strong 
angel  and  of  great  pity. 


THERE  is  always  a  little  fire  of  wood  on  the  open  hearth 
in  the  kitchen  when  I  get  home  at  night ;  the  old 
lady  says  it  is  "  company  "  for  her,  and  sits  in  the 
lonely  twilight,  her  knotted  hands  lying  quiet  on  her 
lap,  her  listening  eyes  fixed  on  the  burning  sticks. 

I  wonder  sometimes  whether  she  hears  music  in  the 
leap  and  lick  of  the  fiery  tongues,  music  such  as  he 
of  Bayreuth  draws  from  the  violins  till  the  hot  energy 
of  the  fire  spirit  is  on  us,  embodied  in  sound. 

Surely  she  hears  some  voice,  that  lonely  old  woman 
on  whom  is  set  the  seal  of  great  silence  ? 

It  is  a  great  truth  tenderly  said  that  God  builds 
the  nest  for  the  blind  bird ;  and  may  it  not  be  that 
He  opens  closed  eyes  and  unstops  deaf  ears  to  sights 
and  sounds  from  which  others  by  these  very  senses 
are  debarred  ? 

Here  the  best  of  us  see  through  a  mist  of  tears  men 
as  trees  walking  ;  it  is  only  in  the  land  which  is  very 
far  off  and  yet  very  near  that  we  shall  have  fulness  of 
sight  and  see  the  King  in  His  beauty ;  and  I  cannot 
think  that  any  listening  ears  listen  in  vain. 
30 


THE    ROADMENDER 

The  coppice  at  our  back  is  full  of  birds,  for  it  is  far 
from  the  road  and  they  nest  there  undisturbed  year 
after  year.  Through  the  still  night  I  heard  the 
nightingales  calling,  calling,  until  I  could  bear  it  no 
longer  and  went  softly  out  into  the  luminous  dark. 

The  little  wood  was  manifold  with  sound,  I  heard 
my  little  brothers  who  move  by  night  rustling  in  grass 
and  tree.  A  hedgehog  crossed  my  path  with  a  dull 
squeak,  the  bats  shrilled  high  to  the  stars,  a  white 
owl  swept  past  me  crying  his  hunting  note,  a  beetle 
boomed  suddenly  in  my  face ;  and  above  and  through 
it  all  the  nightingales  sang — and  sang  ! 

The  night  wind  bent  the  listening  trees,  and  the  stars 
yearned  earthward  to  hear  the  song  of  deathless  love. 
Louder  and  louder  the  wonderful  notes  rose  and  fell 
in  a  passion  of  melody ;  and  then  sank  to  rest  on  that 
low  thrilling  call  which  it  is  said  Death  once  heard, 
and  stayed  his  hand. 

They  will  scarcely  sing  again  this  year,  these  night- 
ingales, for  they  are  late  on  the  wing  as  it  is.  It  seems 
as  if  on  such  nights  they  sang  as  the  swan  sings,  knowing 
it  to  be  the  last  time — with  the  lavish  note  of  one  who 
bids  an  eternal  farewell. 

At  last  there  was  silence.  Sitting  under  the  big 
beech  tree,  the  giant  of  the  coppice,  I  rested  my  tired 
self  in  the  lap  of  mother  earth,  breathed  of  her  breath 


THE    ROADMENDER 

and  listened  to  her  voice  in  the  quickening  silence 
until  my  flesh  came  again  as  the  flesh  of  a  little  child, 
for  it  is  true  recreation  to  sit  at  the  foot-stool  of 
God  wrapped  in  a  fold  of  His  living  robe,  the 
while  night  smoothes  our  tired  face  with  her  healing 
hands. 

The  grey  dawn  awoke  and  stole  with  trailing  robes 
across  earth's  floor.  At  her  footsteps  the  birds  roused 
from  sleep  and  cried  a  greeting ;  the  sky  flushed  and 
paled  conscious  of  coming  splendour ;  and  overhead 
a  file  of  swans  passed  with  broad  strong  flight  to  the 
reeded  waters  of  the  sequestered  pool. 

Another  hour  of  silence  while  the  light  throbbed 
and  flamed  in  the  east ;  then  the  larks  rose  har- 
monious from  a  neighbouring  field,  the  rabbits 
scurried  with  ears  alert  to  their  morning  meal,  the 
day  liad  bc^un. 

I  passed  through  the  coppice  and  out  into  the  fields 
beyond.  The  dew  lay  heavy  on  leaf  and  blade  and 
gossamer,  a  cool  fresh  wind  swept  clear  over  dale  and 
clown  from  the  sea,  and  the  clover  field  rippled  like  a 
silvery  lake  in  the  breeze. 

There  is  something  inexpressibly  beautiful  in  the 
unused  day,  something  beautiful  in  the  fact  that  it 
is  still  untouched,  unsoiled ;  and  town  and  country 
share  alike  in  this  loveliness.  At  half-past  three  on 


The  reeded  waters  of  the  sequestered  pool 


(32 


THE    ROADMENDER 

a  June  morning  even  London  has  not  assumed  her 
responsibilities,  but  smiles  and  glows  lighthearted  and 
smokeless  under  the  caresses  of  the  morning  sun. 

Five  o'clock.  The  bell  rings  out  crisp  and  clear 
from  the  monastery  where  the  Bedesmen  of  St  Hugh 
watch  and  pray  for  the  souls  on  this  labouring  forgetful 
earth.  Every  hour  the  note  of  comfort  and  warning 
cries  across  the  land,  tells  the  Sanctus,  the  Angelus, 
and  the  Hours  of  the  Passion,  and  calls  to  remembrance 
and  prayer. 

When  the  wind  is  north,  the  sound  carries  as  far 
as  my  road,  and  companies  me  through  the  day ;  and 
if  to  His  dumb  children  God  in  His  mercy  reckons 
work  as  prayer,  most  certainly  those  who  have  forged 
through  the  ages  an  unbroken  chain  of  supplication 
and  thanksgiving  will  be  counted  among  the  stalwart 
labourers  of  the  house  of  the  Lord. 

Sun  and  bell  together  are  my  only  clock :  it  is  time 
for  my  water  drawing ;  and  gathering  a  pile  of  mush- 
rooms, children  of  the  night,  I  hasten  home. 

The  cottage  is  dear  to  me  in  its  quaint  untidiness 
and  want  of  rectitude,  dear  because  we  are  to  be  its 
last  denizens,  last  of  the  long  line  of  toilers  who  have 
sweated  and  sown  that  others  might  reap,  and  have 
passed  away  leaving  no  trace. 

I  once  saw  a  tall  cross  in  a  seaboard  churchyard, 
c  33 


THE    ROADMENDER 

inscribed,  "  To  the  memory  of  the  unknown  dead  who 
have  perished  in  these  waters."  There  might  be 
one  in  every  village  sleeping-place  to  the  unhonoured 
many  who  made  fruitful  the  land  with  sweat  and  tears. 
It  is  a  consolation  to  think  that  when  we  look  back 
on  this  stretch  of  life's  road  from  beyond  the  first 
milestone,  which,  it  is  instructive  to  remember,  is 
always  a  grave,  we  may  hope  to  see  the  work  of  this 
world  with  open  eyes,  and  to  judge  of  it  with  a  due  sense 
of  proportion. 

A  bee  with  laden  honey-bag  hummed  and  buzzed 
in  the  hedge  as  I  got  ready  for  work,  importuning  the 
flowers  for  that  which  he  could  not  carry,  and  finally 
giving  up  the  attempt  in  despair  fell  asleep  on  a 
buttercup,  the  best  place  for  his  weary  little  velvet 
body.  In  five  minutes — they  may  have  been  five 
hours  to  him — he  awoke  a  new  bee,  sensible  and  clear- 
sighted, and  flew  blithely  away  to  the  hive  with  his 
sufficiency — an  example  this  weary  world  would  be 
wise  to  follow. 

My  road  has  been  lonely  to-day.  A  parson  came 
by  in  the  afternoon,  a  stranger  in  the  neighbourhood, 
for  lie  asked  his  way.  He  talked  awhile,  and  with 
kindly  rebuke  said  it  was  sad  to  see  a  man  of  my 
education  brought  so  low,  which  shows  how  the  out- 
side appearance  may  mislead  the  prejudiced  observer. 
34 


The  monastery  where  the  Bedesmen  of  St.  Hugh  watch  and  pray 


[34 


"  Was  it  misfortune  ? "  "  Nay,  the  best  of  good 
luck,"  I  answered,  gaily. 

The  good  man  with  beautiful  readiness  sat  down 
on  a  heap  of  stones  and  bade  me  say  on.  "  Read  me 
a  sermon  in  stone,"  he  said,  simply ;  and  I  stayed  my 
hand  to  read. 

He  listened  with  courteous  intelligence. 

"  You  hold  a  roadmender  has  a  vocation  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  As  the  monk  or  the  artist,  for,  like  both,  he  is 
universal.  The  world  is  his  home ;  he  serves  all 
men  alike,  ay,  and  for  him  the  beasts  have  equal  honour 
with  the  men.  His  soul  is  '  bound  up  in  the  bundle 
of  life '  with  all  other  souls,  he  sees  his  father,  his 
mother,  his  brethren  in  the  children  of  the  road.  For 
him  there  is  nothing  unclean,  nothing  common ;  the 
very  stones  cry  out  that  they  serve." 

Parson  nodded  his  head. 

"  It  is  all  true,"  he  said  ;  "  beautifully  true.  But 
need  such  a  view  of  life  necessitate  the  work  of  road- 
mending  ?  Surely  all  men  should  be  roadmenders." 

0  wise  parson,  so  to  read  the  lesson  of  the  road  ! 

"  It  is  true,"  I  answered ;  "  but  some  of  us  find 
our  salvation  in  the  actual  work,  and  earn  our  bread 
better  in  this  than  in  any  other  way.  No  man  is 
dependent  on  our  earning,  all  men  on  our  work.  We 
are  '  rich  beyond  the  dreams  of  avarice '  because  we 

35 


THE    ROADMENDER 

have  all  that  we  need,  and  yet  we  taste  the  life  and 
poverty  of  the  very  poor.  We  are,  if  you  will,  un- 
cloistered  monks,  preaching  friars  who  speak  not  with 
the  tongue,  disciples  who  hear  the  wise  words  of  a 
silent  master." 

"  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  was  a  roadmender," 
said  the  wise  parson. 

"  Ay,  and  with  more  than  his  pen,"  I  answered. 
"  I  wonder  was  he  ever  so  truly  great,  so  entirely 
the  man  we  know  and  love,  as  when  he  inspired  the 
chiefs  to  make  a  highway  in  the  wilderness.  Surely 
no  more  fitting  monument  could  exist  to  his  memory 
than  the  Road  of  Gratitude,  cut,  laid,  and  kept  by 
the  pure-blooded  tribe  kings  of  Samoa." 

Parson  nodded. 

''  He  knew  that  the  people  who  make  no  roads  are 
ruled  out  from  intelligent  participation  in  the  world's 
brotherhood."  He  filled  his  pipe,  thinking  the  while, 
then  he  held  out  his  pouch  to  me. 

"  Try  some  of  this  baccy,"  he  said ;  "  Sherwood  of 
Magdalen  sent  it  me  from  some  outlandish  place." 

I  accepted  gratefully.  It  was  such  tobacco  as  falla 
to  the  lot  of  few  roadmenders. 

He  rose  to  go. 

''  I  wish  I  could  come  and  break  stones,"  he  said, 
a  little  wistfully. 
36 


THE    ROADMENDER 

"  Nay,"  said  I,  "  few  men  have  such  weary  road- 
mending  as  yours,  and  perhaps  you  need  my  road  less 
than  most  men,  and  less  than  most  parsons." 

We  shook  hands,  and  he  went  down  the  road  and 
out  of  my  lif  e. 

He  little  guessed  that  I  knew  Sherwood,  ay,  and  knew 
him  too,  for  had  not  Sherwood  told  me  of  the  man  he 
delighted  to  honour. 

Ah,  well !  I  am  no  Browning  Junior,  and  Sherwood's 
name  is  not  Sherwood. 


37 


VI 

AWHILE  ago  I  took  a  holiday ;  mouched,  played 
truant  from  my  road.  Jem  the  waggoner  hailed 
me  as  he  passed — he  was  going  to  the  mill — would 
I  ride  with  him  and  come  back  atop  of  the  full 

sacks  ? 

I  hid  my  hammer  in  the  hedge,  climbed  into  the 
great  waggon  white  and  fragrant  with  the  clean  sweet 
meal,  and  flung  myself  down  on  the  empty  flour  bags. 
The  looped-back  tarpaulin  framed  the  long  vista  of 
my  road  with  the  downs  beyond  ;  and  I  lay  in  the  cool 
dark,  caressed  by  the  fresh  breeze  in  its  thoroughfare, 
soothed  by  the  strong  monotonous  tramp  of  the  great 
grey  team  and  the  music  of  the  jangling  harness. 

Jem  walked  at  the  leaders'  heads ;  it  is  his  rule 
when  the  waggon  is  empty,  a  rule  no  "  company  " 
will  make  him  break.  At  first  I  regretted  it,  but  soon 
discovered  I  learnt  to  know  him  better  so,  as  he  plodded 
along,  his  thickset  figure  slightly  bent,  his  hands  in 
his  pockets,  his  whip  under  one  arm,  whistling  hymn 
tunes  in  a  low  minor,  while  the  great  horses  answered 
lo  his  voice  without  touch  of  lash  or  guiding  rein. 
38 


The  sun  stretched  the  long  shadows  in  slanting  bars  across  the  white 

highway 


THE    ROADMENDER 

I  lay  as  in  a  blissful  dream  and  watched  my  road 
unfold.  The  sun  set  the  pine-boles  aflare  where  the 
hedge  is  sparse,  and  stretched  the  long  shadows  of 
the  besom  poplars  in  slanting  bars  across  the  white 
highway ;  the  roadside  gardens  smiled  friendly  with 
their  trim-cut  laurels  and  rows  of  stately  sunflowers — 
a  seemly  proximity  this,  Daphne  and  Clytie,  sisters 
in  experience,  wrapped  in  the  warm  caress  of  the  god 
whose  wooing  they  need  no  longer  fear.  Here  and 
there  we  passed  little  groups  of  women  and  children 
off  to  work  in  the  early  cornfields,  and  Jem  paused 
in  his  fond  repetition  of  "  The  Lord  my  pasture  shall 
prepare  "  to  give  them  good-day. 

It  is  like  Life,  this  travelling  backwards — that 
which  has  been,  alone  visible — like  Life,  which  is  after 
all,  retrospective  with  a  steady  moving  on  into  the 
Unknown,  Unseen,  until  Faith  is  lost  in  Sight  and 
experience  is  no  longer  the  touchstone  of  humanity. 
The  face  of  the  son  of  Adam  is  set  on  the  road  his 
brothers  have  travelled,  marking  their  landmarks, 
tracing  their  journeyings ;  but  with  the  eyes  of  a  child 
of  God  he  looks  forward,  straining  to  catch  a  glimpse 
of  the  jewelled  walls  of  his  future  home,  the  city 
"  Eternal  in  the  Heavens." 

Presently  we  left  my  road  for  the  deep  shade  of  a 
narrow  country  way  where  the  great  oaks  and  beeches 

39 


THE    ROADMENDER 

meet  overhead  and  no  hedge-clipper  sets  his  hand 
to  stay  nature's  profusion ;  and  so  by  pleasant  lanes 
scarce  the  waggon's  width  across,  now  shady,  now 
sunny,  here  bordered  by  thickset  coverts,  there  giving 
on  fruitful  fields,  we  came  at  length  to  the  mill. 

I  left  Jem  to  his  business  with  the  miller  and  wandered 
down  the  flowery  meadow  to  listen  to  the  merry  clack 
of  the  stream  and  the  voice  of  the  waters  on  the  weir. 
The  great  wheel  was  at  rest,  as  I  love  best  to  see  it 
in  the  later  afternoon ;  the  splash  and  churn  of  the 
water  belong  rather  to  the  morning  hours.  It  is  the 
chief  mistake  we  make  in  portioning  out  our  day  that 
we  banish  rest  to  the  night-time,  which  is  for  sleep  and 
recreating,  instead  of  setting  apart  the  later  afternoon 
and  quiet  twilight  hours  for  the  stretching  of  weary 
limbs  and  repose  of  tired  mind  after  a  day's  toil  that 
should  begin  and  end  at  five. 

The  little  stone  bridge  over  the  mill-stream  is  almost 
on  a  level  with  the  clear  running  water,  and  I  lay  there 
and  gazed  at  the  huge  wheel  which,  under  multitudinous 
forms  and  uses,  is  one  of  the  world's  wonders,  because 
one  of  the  few  things  we  imitative  children  have  not 
learnt  from  nature.  Is  it  perchance  a  memory  out  of 
that  past  when  Adam  walked  clear-eyed  in  Paradise 
and  talked  with  the  Lord  in  the  cool  of  the  day  ?  Did 
tie  see  then  the  flaming  wheels  instinct  with  service, 
40 


The  great  wheel  was  at  rest 


[40 


THE    ROADMENDER 

wondrous  messengers  of  the  Most  High  vouchsafed 
in  vision  to  the  later  prophets  ? 

Maybe  he  did,  and  going  forth  from  before  the 
avenging  sword  of  his  own  forging  to  the  bitterness 
of  an  accursed  earth,  took  with  him  this  bright  memory 
of  perfect,  ceaseless  service,  and  so  fashioned  our 
labouring  wheel — pathetic  link  with  the  time  of  his 
innocency.  It  is  one  of  many  unanswered  questions, 
good  to  ask  because  it  has  no  answer,  only  the  suggestion 
of  a  train  of  thought :  perhaps  we  are  never  so  receptive 
as  when  with  folded  hands  we  say  simply,  "  This  is 
a  great  mystery."  I  watched  and  wondered  until 
Jem  called,  and  I  had  to  leave  the  rippling  weir  and 
the  water's  side,  and  the  wheel  with  its  untold  secret. 

The  miller's  wife  gave  me  tea  and  a  crust  of  home- 
made bread,  and  the  miller's  little  maid  sat  on  my  knee 
while  I  told  the  sad  tale  of  a  little  pink  cloud  separated 
from  its  parents  and  teazed  and  hunted  by  mischievous 
little  airs.  To-morrow,  if  I  mistake  not,  her  garden 
will  be  wet  with  its  tears,  and,  let  us  hope,  point  a 
moral ;  for  the  tale  had  its  origin  in  a  frenzied  chicken 
driven  from  the  side  of  an  anxious  mother,  and  pursued 
by  a  sturdy,  relentless  figure  in  a  white  sun-bonnet. 

The  little  maid  trotted  off,  greatly  sobered,  to  look 
somewhat  prematurely  for  the  cloud's  tears ;  and  I 
climbed  to  my  place  at  the  top  of  the  piled-up  sacks, 


THE    ROADMENDER 

and  thence  watched  twilight  pass  to  starlight  through 
my  narrow  peep,  and,  so  watching,  slept  until  Jem's 
voice  hailed  me  from  Dreamland,  and  I  went,  only 
half  awake,  across  the  dark  fields  home. 

Autumn  is  here  and  it  is  already  late.  He  has 
painted  the  hedges  russet  and  gold,  scarlet  and  black, 
and  a  tangle  of  grey ;  now  he  has  damp  brown  leaves 
in  his  hair  and  frost  in  his  finger-tips. 

It  is  a  season  of  contrasts  ;  at  first  all  is  stir  and  bustle, 
the  ingathering  of  man  and  beast ;  barn  and  rickyard 
stand  filled  with  golden  treasure  ;  at  the  farm  the  sound 
of  threshing ;  in  wood  and  copse  the  squirrels  busied 
'twixt  tree  and  storehouse,  while  the  ripe  nuts  fall 
with  thud  of  thunder  rain.  When  the  harvesting 
is  over,  the  fruit  gathered,  the  last  rick  thatched,  there 
comes  a  pause.  Earth  strips  off  her  bright  colours 
and  shows  a  bare  and  furrowed  face ;  the  dead  leaves 
fall  gently  and  sadly  through  the  calm,  sweet  air; 
grey  mists  drape  the  fields  and  hedges.  The  migratory 
birds  have  left,  save  a  few  late  swallows ;  and  as  I 
pit  at  work  in  the  soft,  still  rain,  I  can  hear  the  black- 
Mr  d's  melancholy  trill  and  the  thin  pipe  of  the  red- 
breast's winter  song — the  air  is  full  of  the  sound  of 
farewell. 

Forethought  and  preparation  for  the  Future  which 
42 


THE    ROADMENDER 

shall  be ;  farewell,  because  of  the  Future  which  may 
never  be — for  us ;  "  Man,  thou  hast  goods  laid  up 
for  many  years,  and  it  is  well ;  but,  remember,  this 
night  thy  soul  may  be  required  " ;  is  the  unvoiced 
lesson  of  autumn.  There  is  growing  up  among  us  a 
great  fear ;  it  stares  at  us  white,  wide-eyed,  from  the 
faces  of  men  and  women  alike — the  fear  of  pain,  mental 
and  bodily  pain.  For  the  last  twenty  years  we  have 
waged  war  with  suffering — a  noble  war  when  fought  in 
the  interest  of  the  many,  but  fraught  with  great  danger 
to  each  individual  man.  It  is  the  fear  which  should 
not  be,  rather  than  the  '  hope  which  is  in  us,'  that 
leads  men  in  these  days  to  drape  Death  in  a  flowery 
mantle,  to  lay  stress  on  the  shortness  of  parting,  the 
speedy  reunion,  to  postpone  their  good-byes  until 
the  last  moment,  or  avoid  saying  them  altogether ; 
and  this  fear  is  a  poor,  ignoble  thing, 'unworthy  of  those 
who  are  as  gods,  knowing  good  and  evil.  We  are  still 
paying  the  price  of  that  knowledge ;  suffering  in  both 
kinds  is  a  substantial  part  of  it,  and  brings  its  own 
healing.  Let  us  pay  like  men,  our  face  to  the  open 
heaven,  neither  whimpering  like  children  in  the  dark, 
nor  lulled  to  unnecessary  oblivion  by  some  lethal 
drug;  for  it  is  manly,  not  morbid,  to  dare  to  taste 
the  pungent  savour  of  pain,  the  lingering  sadness  of 
farewell  which  emphasises  the  aftermath  of  life ;  it 

43 


should  have  its  place  in  all  our  preparation  as  a  part 
of  our  inheritance  we  dare  not  be  without. 

There  is  an  old  couple  in  our  village  who  are  past 
work.  The  married  daughter  has  made  shift  to  take 
her  mother  and  the  parish  half-crown,  but  there  is  neither 

room  nor  food  for  the  father,  and  he  must  go  to  N . 

If  husband  and  wife  went  together,  they  would  be 
separated  at  the  workhouse  door.  The  parting  had  to 
come ;  it  came  yesterday.  I  saw  them  stumbling 
lamely  down  the  road  on  their  last  journey  together, 
walking  side  by  side  without  touch  or  speech,  seeing 
and  heeding  nothing  but  a  blank  future.  As  they 
passed  me  the  old  man  said  gruffly,  "  'Tis  far  eno' ; 
better  be  gettin'  back  " ;  but  the  woman  shook  her 
head,  and  they  breasted  the  hill  together.  At  the  top 
they  paused,  shook  hands,  and  separated ;  one  went 
on,  the  other  turned  back ;  and  as  the  old  woman 
limped  blindly  by  I  turned  away,  for  there  are  sights 
a  man  dare  not  look  upon.  She  passed  ;  and  I  heard 
a  cliild's  shrill  voice  say,  "  I  come  to  look  for  you, 
gran  "  ;  and  I  thanked  God  that  there  need  be  no 
utter  loneliness  in  the  world  while  it  holds  a  little  child. 

Now  it  is  my  turn,  and  I  must  leave  the  wayside 

to  serve  in  the  sheepfolds  during  the  winter  months. 

It  is  scarcely  a  farewell,  for  my  road  is  ubiquitous, 

eternal ;    there  are  green  ways  in  Paradise  and  golden 

44 


THE    ROADMENDER 

streets  in  the  beautiful  City  of  God.  Nevertheless, 
my  heart  is  heavy ;  for,  viewed  by  the  light  of  the 
waning  year,  roadmending  seems  a  great  and  wonderful 
work  which  I  have  poorly  conceived  of  and  meanly 
performed :  yet  I  have  learnt  to  understand  dimly 
the  truths  of  three  great  paradoxes — the  blessing  of 
a  curse,  the  voice  of  silence,  the  companionship  of 
solitude — and  so  take  my  leave  of  this  stretch  of  road, 
and  of  you  who  have  fared  along  the  white  highway 
through  the  medium  of  a  printed  page. 

Farewell !     It  is  a  roadmender's  word ;    I  cry  you 
Godspeed  to  the  next  milestone — and  beyond. 


45 


OUT  OF  THE   SHADOW 


The  crisp  rime  of  winter's  breath 


[48 


I  AM  no  longer  a  roadmender ;  the  stretch  of  white 
highway  which  leads  to  the  end  of  the  world  will  know 
me  no  more ;  the  fields  and  hedgerows,  grass  and  leaf 
stiff  with  the  crisp  rime  of  winter's  breath,  lie  beyond 
my  horizon ;  the  ewes  in  the  folding,  their  mysterious 
eyes  quick  with  the  consciousness  of  coming  mother- 
hood, answer  another's  voice  and  hand ;  while  I  lie 
here,  not  in  the  lonely  companionship  of  my  ex- 
pectations, but  where  the  shadow  is  bright  with  kindly 
faces  and  gentle  hands,  until  one  kinder  and  gentler 
still  carries  me  down  the  stairway  into  the  larger  room. 

But  now  the  veil  was  held  aside  and  one  went  by 
crowned  with  the  majesty  of  years,  wearing  the  ermine 
of  an  unstained  rule,  the  purple  of  her  people's  loyalty. 
Nations  stood  with  bated  breath  to  see  her  pass  in  the 
starlit  mist  of  her  children's  tears ;  a  monarch — 
greatest  of  her  time ;  an  empress — conquered  men 
called  mother ;  a  woman — Englishmen  cried  queen ; 
still  the  crowned  captive  of  her  people's  heart — the 
prisoner  of  love. 

The  night-goers  passed  under  my  window  in  silence, 
D  49 


THE    ROADMENDER 

neither  song  nor  shout  broke  the  welcome  dark;  next 
morning  the  workmen  who  went  by  were  strangely  quiet. 

'VICTORIA  DEI  GRATIA  BRITANNIARUM  REGINA.' 

Did  they  think  of  how  that  legend  would  disappear, 
and  of  all  it  meant,  as  they  paid  their  pennies  at  the 
coffee-stall  ?  The  feet  rarely  know  the  true  value 
and  work  of  the  head ;  but  all  Englishmen  have  been 
and  will  be  quick  to  acknowledge  and  revere  Victoria 
by  the  grace  of  God  a  wise  woman,  a  great  and  loving 
mother. 

Years  ago,  I,  standing  at  a  level  crossing,  saw  her 
pass.  The  train  slowed  down,  and  she  caught  sight 
of  the  gatekeeper's  little  girl  who  had  climbed  the 
barrier.  Such  a  smile  as  she  gave  her !  And  then 
I  caught  a  quick  startled  gesture  as  she  slipped  from 
my  vision  ;  I  thought  afterwards  it  was  that  she  feared 
the  child  might  fall.  Mother  first,  then  Queen ;  even 
so  rest  came  to  her — not  in  one  of  the  royal  palaces, 
but  in  her  own  home,  surrounded  by  the  immediate 
circle  of  her  nearest  and  dearest,  while  the  world  kept 
watch  and  ward. 

I,  a  shy  lover  of  the  fields  and  woods,  longed  always, 
should  a  painless  passing  be  vouchsafed  me,  to  make 
my  bed  on  the  fragrant  pine  needles  in  th<3  aloneness 
of  a  great  forest ;  to  lie  once  again  as  I  had  lain  many 


The  aloneness  of  a  great  forest 


(90 


OUT    OF    THE    SHADOW 

a  time,  bathed  in  the  bitter  sweetness  of  the  sun- 
blessed  pines,  lapped  in  the  manifold  silence ;  my 
ear  attuned  to  the  wind  of  Heaven  with  its  call  from 
the  Cities  of  Peace.  In  sterner  mood,  when  Love's 
hand  held  a  scourge,  I  craved  rather  the  stress  of  the 
moorland  with  its  bleaker  mind  imperative  of  sacrifice. 
To  rest  again  under  the  lee  of  Rippon  Tor  swept  by 
the  strong  peat-smelling  breeze;  to  stare  untired  at 
the  long  cloud- shadowed  reaches,  and  watch  the  mist- 
wraiths  huddle  and  shrink  round  the  stones  of  blood ; 
until  my  sacrifice  too  was  accomplished,  and  my  soul 
had  fled.  A  wild  waste  moor  ;  a  vast  void  sky ;  and 
naught  between  heaven  and  earth  but  man,  his  sin- 
glazed  eyes  seeking  afar  the  distant  light  of  his  own 
heart. 

With  years  came  counsels  more  profound,  and  the 
knowledge  that  man  was  no  mere  dweller  in  the 
woods  to  follow  the  footsteps  of  the  piping  god,  but 
an  integral  part  of  an  organised  whole,  in  which  Pan 
too  has  his  fulfilment.  The  wise  Venetians  knew ;  and 
read  pantheism  into  Christianity  when  they  set  these 
words  round  Ezekiel's  living  creatures  in  the  altar 
vault  of  St  Mark's  :— 

QUAEQUE  SUB  OBSCURIS  DE  CRISTO  DICTA  FIGURIS 
HlS  APERIRE  DATUR  ET  IN  HIS,  DfiUS  IPSE  NOTATUR. 

51 


THE    ROADMENDER 

"  Thou  shalt  have  none  other  gods  but  me."  If 
man  had  been  able  to  keep  this  one  commandment 
perfectly  the  other  nine  would  never  have  been  written  ; 
instead  he  has  comprehensively  disregarded  it,  and 
perhaps  never  more  than  now  in  the  twentieth  century. 
Ah,  well !  this  world,  in  spite  of  all  its  sinning,  is  still 
the  Garden  of  Eden  where  the  Lord  walked  with  man, 
not  in  the  cool  of  evening,  but  in  the  heat  and  stress 
of  the  immediate  working  day.  There  is  no  angel 
now  with  flaming  sword  to  keep  the  way  of  the  Tree 
of  Life,  but  tapers  alight  morning  by  morning  in  the 
Hostel  of  God  to  point  us  to  it ;  and  we,  who  are  as 
gods  knowing  good  and  evil,  partake  of  that  fruit 
"  whereof  whoso  eateth  shall  never  die  "  ;  the  greatest 
gift  or  the  most  awful  penalty — Eternal  Life. 

I  then,  with  my  craving  for  tree  and  sky,  held  that 
a  great  capital  with  its  stir  of  life  and  death,  of  toil 
and  strife  and  pleasure,  was  an  ill  place  for  a  sick  man 
to  wait  in ;  a  place  to  shrink  from  as  a  child  shrinks 
from  the  rude  blow  of  one  out  of  authority.  Yet 
here,  far  from  moor  and  forest,  hillside  and  hedgerow, 
in  the  family  sitting-room  of  the  English-speaking 
peoples,  the  London  much  misunderstood,  I  find  the 
fulfilment  by  antithesis  of  all  desire.  For  the  loneliness 
of  the  moorland,  there  is  the  warmth  and  companionship 
of  London's  swift  beating  heart.  For  silence  there  is 
52 


OUT    OF    THE    SHADOW 

sound — the  sound  and  stir  of  service — for  the  most 
part  far  in  excess  of  its  earthly  equivalent.  Against 
the  fragrant  incense  of  the  pines  I  set  the  honest  sweat 
of  the  man  whose  lifetime  is  the  measure  of  his  working 
day.  "  He  that  loveth  not  his  brother  whom  he  hath 
seen,  how  shall  he  love  God  whom  he  hath  not  seen  ?  " 
wrote  Blessed  John,  who  himself  loved  so  much  that  he 
beheld  the  Lamb  as  it  had  been  slain  from  the  beginning 
when  Adam  fell,  and  the  City  of  God  with  light  most 
precious.  The  burden  of  corporate  sin,  the  sword  of 
corporate  sorrow,  the  joy  of  corporate  righteousness ; 
thus  we  become  citizens  in  the  Kingdom  of  God,  and 
companions  of  all  his  creatures.  "  It  is  not  good  that 
the  man  should  be  alone,"  said  the  Lord  God. 

I  live  now  as  it  were  in  two  worlds,  the  world  of 
sight,  and  the  world  of  sound ;  and  they  scarcely  ever 
touch  each  other.  I  hear  the  grind  of  heavy  traffic, 
the  struggle  of  horses  on  the  frost-breathed  ground, 
the  decorous  jolt  of  omnibuses,  the  jangle  of  cab  bells, 
the  sharp  warning  of  bicycles  at  the  corner,  the  swift 
rattle  of  costers'  carts  as  they  go  south  at  night  with 
their  shouting,  goading  crew.  Ah1  these  things  I  hear, 
and  more ;  but  I  see  no  road,  only  the  silent  river 
of  my  heart  with  its  tale  of  wonder  and  years,  and 
the  white  beat  of  seagulls'  wings  in  strong  inquiring 
flight. 

53 


THE    ROADMENDER 

Sometimes  there  is  naught  to  see  on  the  waterway 
but  a  solitary  black  hull,  a  very  Stygian  ferry-boat, 
manned  by  a  solitary  figure,  and  moving  slowly  up 
under  the  impulse  of  the  far-reaching  sweeps.  Then 
the  great  barges  pass  with  their  coffined  treasure, 
drawn  by  a  small  self-righteous  steam-tug.  Later, 
lightened  of  their  load,  and  waiting  on  wind  and  tide, 
I  see  them  swooping  by  like  birds  set  free ;  tawny 
sails  that  mind  me  of  red-roofed  Whitby  with  its 
northern  fleet ;  black  sails  as  of  some  heedless  Theseus  ; 
white  sails  that  sweep  out  of  the  morning  mist  "  like 
restless  gossamcres."  They  make  the  bridge,  which 
is  just  within  my  vision,  and  then  away  past  West- 
minster and  Blackfriars  where  St  Paul's  great  dome 
lifts  the  cross  high  over  a  self-seeking  city ;  past 
Southwark  where  England's  poet  illuminates  in  the 
scroll  of  divine  wisdom  the  sign  of  the  Tabard ;  past 
the  Tower  with  its  haunting  ghosts  of  history ;  past 
Greenwich,  fairy  city,  caught  in  the  meshes  of  river- 
side mist ;  and  then  the  salt  and  speer  of  the  sea,  the 
companying  with  great  ships,  the  fresh  burden. 

At  night  I  see  them  again,  silent,  mysterious  ;  search- 
ing the  darkness  with  unwinking  yellow  stare,  led  by 
a  great  green  light.  They  creep  up  under  the  bridge 
which  spans  the  river  with  its  watching  eyes,  and  vanish, 
crying  back  a  warning  note  as  they  make  the  upper 
54 


OUT    OF    THE    SHADOW 

reach,  or  strident  hail,  as  a  chain  of  kindred  phantoms 
passes,  ploughing  a  contrary  tide. 

Throughout  the  long  watches  of  the  night  I  follow 
them ;  and  in  the  early  morning  they  slide  by,  their 
eyes  pale  in  the  twilight;  while  the  stars  flicker  and 
fade,  and  the  gas  lamps  die  down  into  a  dull  yellow 
blotch  against  the  glory  and  glow  of  a  new  day. 


55 


II 

FEBRUARY  is  here,  February  fill-dyke ;  the  month 
of  purification,  of  cleansing  rains  and  pulsing  bounding 
streams,  and  white  mist  clinging  insistent  to  field  and 
hedgerow  so  that  when  her  veil  is  withdrawn  greenness 
may  make  us  glad. 

The  river  has  been  uniformly  grey  of  late,  with  no 
wind  to  ruffle  its  surface  or  to  speed  the  barges  dropping 
slowly  and  sullenly  down  with  the  tide  through  a 
blurring  haze.  I  watched  one  yesterday,  its  useless 
sails  half-furled  and  no  sign  of  life  save  the  man  at 
the  helm.  It  drifted  stealthily  past,  and  a  little  behind, 
flying  low,  came  a  solitary  seagull,  grey  as  the  river's 
haze — a  following  bird. 

Once  again  I  lay  on  my  back  in  the  bottom  of  the 
tarry  old  fishing  smack,  blue  sky  above  and  no  sound 
but  the  knock,  knock  of  the  waves,  and  the  thud  and 
curl  of  falling  foam  as  the  old  boat's  blunt  nose  breasted 
the  coming  sea.  Then  Daddy  Whiddon  spoke. 

"  A  follerin'  biirrd,"  he  said. 

I  got  up,  and  looked  across  the  blue  field  we  were 
ploughing  into  white  furrows.  Far  away  a  tiny  sail 
56 


OUT    OF    THE    SHADOW 

scarred  the  great  solitude,  and  astern  came  a  gull 
flying  slowly  close  to  the  water's  breast. 

Daddy  Whiddon  waved  his  pipe  towards  it. 

"  A  follerin'  biirrd,"  he  said,  again ;  and  again  I 
waited ;  questions  were  not  grateful  to  him. 

"  There  be  a  carpse  there,  sure  enough,  a  carpse 
driftin'  and  shiftin'  on  the  floor  of  the  sea.  There  be 
those  as  can't  rest,  poor  sawls,  and  her'll  be  mun,  her'll 
be  mun,  and  the  sperrit  of  her  is  with  the  biirrd." 

The  clumsy  boom  swung  across  as  we  changed  our 
course,  and  the  water  ran  from  us  in  smooth  reaches 
on  either  side  :  the  bird  flew  steadily  on. 

"  What  will  the  spirit  do  ?  "  I  said. 

The  old  man  looked  at  me  gravely. 

"  Her'll  rest  in  the  Lard's  time,  in  the  Lard's  gude 
time — but  now  her'll  just  be  follerin'  on  with  the 
burrd." 

The  gull  was  flying  close  to  us  now,  and  a  cold  wind 
swept  the  sunny  sea.  I  shivered :  Daddy  looked  at 
me  curiously. 

"  There  be  reason  enough  to  be  cawld  if  us  did  but 
knaw  it,  but  I  be  mos'  used  to  'em,  poor  sawls."  He 
shaded  his  keen  old  blue  eyes,  and  looked  away  across 
the  water.  His  face  kindled.  "  There  be  a  skule  comin', 
and  by  my  sawl  'tis  mackerel  they  be  drivin'." 

I  watched  eagerly,  and  saw  the  dark  line  rise  and 

57 


THE    ROADMENDER 

fall  in  the  trough  of  the  sea,  and,  away  behind,  the  stir 
and  rush  of  tumbling  porpoises  as  they  chased  their 
prey. 

Again  we  changed  our  tack,  and  each  taking  an  oar, 
pulled  lustily  for  the  beach. 

"  Please  God  her'll  break  inshore,"  said  Daddy 
Whiddon ;  and  he  shouted  the  news  at  the  idle  men 
waiting  who  hailed  us. 

In  a  moment  all  was  stir,  for  the  fishing  had  been 
slack.  Two  boats  put  out  with  the  lithe  brown  seine. 
The  dark  line  had  turned,  but  the  school  was  still 
behind,  churning  the  water  in  clumsy  haste ;  they 
were  coming  in. 

Then  the  brit  broke  in  silvery  leaping  waves  on  the 
shelving  beach.  The  three-fold  hunt  was  over ;  the 
porpoises  turned  out  to  sea  in  search  of  fresh  quarry ; 
and  the  seine,  dragged  by  ready  hands,  came  slowly, 
stubbornly  in  with  its  quivering  treasure  of  fish.  They 
had  sought  a  haven  and  found  none ;  the  brit  lay 
dying  in  the  flickering  iridescent  heaps  as  the  bare- 
legged babies  of  the  village  gathered  them  up ;  and 
far  away  over  the  water  I  saw  a  single  grey  speck ; 
it  was  the  following  bird. 

The  curtain  of  river  haze  falls  back ;  barge  and  bird 
are  alike  gone,  and  the  lamplighter  has  lit  the  first 

53 


OUT    OF    THE    SHADOW 

gas-lamp  on  the  far  side  of  the  bridge.  Every  night 
I  watch  him  come,  his  progress  marked  by  the  great 
yellow  eyes  that  wake  the  dark.  Sometimes  he  walks 
quickly ;  sometimes  he  loiters  on  the  bridge  to  chat, 
or  stare  at  the  dark  water ;  but  he  always  comes, 
leaving  his  watchful  deterrent  train  behind  him  to 
police  the  night. 

Once  Demeter  in  the  black  anguish  of  her  desolation 
searched  for  lost  Persephone  by  the  light  of  Hecate's 
torch ;  and  searching  all  in  vain,  spurned  beneath 
her  empty  feet  an  earth  barren  of  her  smile ;  froze 
with  set  brows  the  merry  brooks  and  streams ;  and 
smote  forest,  and  plain,  and  fruitful  field,  with  the  breath 
of  her  last  despair,  until  even  lambe's  laughing  jest 
was  still.  And  then  when  the  desolation  was  complete, 
across  the  wasted  valley  where  the  starveling  cattle 
scarcely  longed  to  browse,  came  the  dreadful  chariot — 
and  Persephone.  The  day  of  the  prisoner  of  Hades 
had  dawned ;  and  as  the  sun  flamed  slowly  up  to 
light  her  thwarted  eyes  the  world  sprang  into  blossom 
at  her  feet. 

We  can  never  be  too  Pagan  when  we  are  truly 
Christian,  and  the  old  myths  are  eternal  truths  held 
fast  in  the  Church's  net.  Prometheus  fetched  fire 
from  Heaven,  to  be  slain  forever  in  the  fetching ;  and 
lo,  a  Greater  than  Prometheus  came  to  fire  the  cresset 

59 


THE    ROADMENDER 

of  the  Cross.  Demeter  waits  now  patiently  enough. 
Persephone  waits,  too,  in  the  faith  of  the  sun  she  cannot 
see :  and  every  lamp  lit  carries  on  the  crusade  which 
has  for  its  goal  a  sunless,  moonless,  city  whose  light 
is  the  Light  of  the  world. 

"  Lume  e  lassu,  che  visibile  face 
lo  creatore  a  quella  creatura, 
che  solo  in  lui  vedere  ha  la  sua  pace." 

Immediately  outside  my  window  is  a  lime  tree — 
a  little  black  skeleton  of  abundant  branches — in  which 
sparrows  congregate  to  chirp  and  bicker.  Farther 
away  I  have  a  glimpse  of  graceful  planes,  children  of 
moonlight  and  mist ;  their  dainty  robes,  still  more 
or  less  unsullied,  gleam  ghostly  in  the  gaslight  athwart 
the  dark.  They  make  a  brave  show  even  in  winter 
with  their  feathery  branches  and  swinging  tassels, 
whereas  my  little  tree  stands  stark  and  uncompromising, 
with  its  horde  of  sooty  sparrows  cockney  to  the  last 
tail  feather,  and  a  pathetic  inability  to  look  anything 
but  black.  Rain  comes  with  strong  caressing  fingers, 
and  the  branches  seem  no  whit  the  cleaner  for  her 
care ;  but  then  their  glistening  blackness  mirrors 
back  the  succeeding  sunlight,  as  a  muddy  pavement 
will  sometimes  lap  our  feet  in  a  sea  of  gold.  The  little 
wet  sparrows  are  for  the  moment  equally  transformed, 
60 


OUT    OF    THE    SHADOW 

for  the  sun  turns  their  dun- coloured  coats  to  a  ruddy 
bronze,  and  cries  Chrysostom  as  it  kisses  each  shiny 
beak.  They  are  dumb  Chrysostoms  ;  but  they  preach 
a  golden  gospel,  for  the  sparrows  are  to  London  what 
the  rainbow  was  to  eight  saved  souls  out  of  a  waste 
of  waters — a  perpetual  sign  of  the  remembering  mercies 
of  God. 

Last  night  there  was  a  sudden  clatter  of  hoofs,  a 
shout,  and  then  silence.  A  runaway  cab-horse,  a  dark 
night,  a  wide  crossing,  and  a  heavy  burden :  so  death 
came  to  a  poor  woman.  People  from  the  house  went 
out  to  help ;  and  I  heard  of  her,  the  centre  of  an  un- 
knowing curious  crowd,  as  she  lay  bonnetless  in  the 
mud  of  the  road,  her  head  on  the  kerb.  A  rude  but 
painless  death :  the  misery  lay  in  her  life ;  for  this 
woman — worn,  white-haired,  and  wrinkled — had  but 
fifty  years  to  set  against  such  a  condition.  The  police- 
man reported  her  respectable,  hard-working,  living 
apart  from  her  husband  with  a  sister ;  but  although 
they  shared  rooms,  they  "  did  not  speak,"  and  the  sister 
refused  all  responsibility  ;  so  the  parish  buried  the  dead 
woman,  and  thus  ended  an  uneventful  tragedy. 

Was  it  her  own  fault  ?  If  so,  the  greater  pathos. 
The  lonely  souls  that  hold  out  timid  hands  to  an  un- 
heeding world  have  their  meed  of  interior  comfort 
even  here,  while  the  sons  of  consolation  wait  on  the 

61 


THE    ROADMENDER 

threshold  for  their  footfall :  but  God  help  the  soul 
that  bars  its  own  door  !  It  is  kicking  against  the  pricks 
of  Divine  ordinance,  the  ordinance  of  a  triune  God ; 
whether  it  be  the  dweller  in  crowded  street  or  tenement 
who  is  proud  to  say,  "  I  keep  myself  to  myself,"  or 
Seneca  writing  in  pitiful  complacency,  "  Whenever 
I  have  gone  among  men,  I  have  returned  home  less  of 
a  man."  Whatever  the  next  world  holds  in  store,  we 
are  bidden  in  this  to  seek  and  serve  God  in  our  fellow- 
men,  and  in  the  creatures  of  His  making  whom  He  calls 
by  name. 

It  was  once  my  privilege  to  know  an  old  organ- 
grinder  named  Gawdine.  He  was  a  hard  swearer,  a 
hard  drinker,  a  hard  liver,  and  he  fortified  himself 
body  and  soul  against  the  world :  he  even  drank  alone, 
which  is  an  evil  sign. 

One  day  to  Gawdine  sober  came  a  little  dirty  child, 
who  clung  to  his  empty  trouser  leg — he  had  lost  a  limb 
years  before — with  a  persistent  unintelligible  request. 
He  shook  the  little  chap  off  with  a  blow  and  a  curse ; 
and  the  child  was  trotting  dismally  away,  when  it 
suddenly  turned,  ran  back,  and  held  up  a  dirty  face 
for  a  kiss. 

Two  days  later  Gawdine  fell  under  a  passing  dray 
wliich  inflicted  terrible  internal  injuries  on  him.  They 
patched  him  up  in  hospital,  and  he  went  back  to  his 
62 


OUT    OF    THE    SHADOW 

organ-grinding,  taking  with  him  two  friends — a  pain 
which  fell  suddenly  upon  him  to  rack  and  rend  with 
an  anguish  of  crucifixion,  and  the  memory  of  a  child's 
upturned  face.  Outwardly  he  was  the  same  save 
that  he  changed  the  tunes  of  his  organ,  out  of  long- 
hoarded  savings,  for  the  jigs  and  reels  which  children 
hold  dear,  and  stood  patiently  playing  them  in  child- 
crowded  alleys,  where  pennies  are  not  as  plentiful 
as  elsewhere. 

He  continued  to  drink ;  it  did  not  come  within 
his  new  code  to  stop,  since  he  could  "  carry  his  liquor 
well  "  ;  but  he  rarely,  if  ever,  swore.  He  told  me  this 
tale  through  the  throes  of  his  anguish  as  he  lay  crouched 
on  a  mattress  on  the  floor ;  and  as  the  grip  of  the  pain 
took  him  he  tore  and  bit  at  his  hands  until  they  were 
maimed  and  bleeding,  to  keep  the  ready  curses  off 
his  lips. 

He  told  the  story,  but  he  gave  no  reason,  offered 
no  explanation :  he  has  been  dead  now  many  a  year, 
and  thus  would  I  write  his  epitaph : — 

He  saw  the  face  of  a  little  child  and  looked  on  God. 


Ill 

14  Two  began,  in  a  low  voice,  '  Why,  the  fact  is,  you 
see,  Miss,  this  here  ought  to  have  be'jn  a  red  rose-tree, 
and  we  put  a  white  one  in  by  mistake.' ' 

As  I  look  round  this  room  I  feel  sure  Two,  and  Five, 
and  Seven,  have  all  been  at  work  on  it,  and  made  no 
mistakes,  for  round  the  walls  runs  a  frieze  of  squat 
standard  rose-trees,  red  as  red  can  be,  and  just  like 
those  that  Alice  saw  in  the  Queen's  garden.  In  between 
them  are  Chaucer's  name-children,  prim  little  daisies, 
peering  wideawake  from  green  grass.  This  same  grass 
has  a  history  which  I  have  heard.  In  the  original 
stencil  for  the  frieze  it  was  purely  conventional  like 
the  rest,  and  met  in  spikey  curves  round  each  tree ; 
the  painter,  however,  who  was  doing  the  work,  was  a 
lover  of  the  fields ;  and  feeling  that  such  grass  was 
a  travesty,  he  added  on  his  own  account  dainty  little 
tussocks,  and  softened  the  hard  line  into  a  tufted 
carpet,  the  grass  growing  irregularly,  bent  at  will 
by  the  wind. 

The  result  from  the  standpoint  of  conventional 
art  is  indeed  disastrous ;  but  my  sympathy  and 
64 


OUT    OF    THE    SHADOW 

gratitude  are  with  the  painter.  I  see,  as  he  saw, 
the  far-reaching  robe  of  living  ineffable  green,  of 
whose  brilliance  the  eye  never  has  too  much,  and  in 
whose  weft  no  two  threads  are  alike ;  and  shrink  as 
he  did  from  the  conventionalising  of  that  wind-swept 
glory. 

The  sea  has  its  crested  waves  of  recognisable  form ; 
the  river  its  eddy  and  swirl  and  separate  vortices ; 
but  the  grass !  The  wind  bloweth  where  it  listeth 
and  the  grass  bows  as  the  wind  blows — "  thou  canst 
not  tell  whither  it  goeth."  It  takes  no  pattern,  it 
obeys  no  recognised  law ;  it  is  like  a  beautiful  creature 
of  a  thousand  wayward  moods,  and  its  voice  is  like 
nothing  else  in  the  wide  world.  It  bids  you  rest  and 
bury  your  tired  face  in  the  green  coolness,  and  breathe 
of  its  breath  and  of  the  breath  of  the  good  earth  from 
which  man  was  taken  and  to  which  he  will  one  day 
return.  Then,  if  you  lend  your  ear  and  are  silent 
minded,  you  may  hear  wondrous  things  of  the  deep 
places  of  the  earth ;  of  lif  e  in  mineral  and  stone  as  well 
as  in  pulsing  sap ;  of  a  green  world  as  the  stars  saw 
it  before  man  trod  it  under  foot — of  the  emerald  which 
has  its  place  with  the  rest  in  the  City  of  God. 

"  What  if  earth 

Be  but  the  shadow  of  heaven,  and  things  therein, 
Each  to  each  other  like,  more  than  on  earth  is  thought  ? " 
E  65 


THE    ROADMENDER 

It  is  a  natural  part  of  civilisation's  lust  of  re-arrange- 
ment that  we  should  be  so  ready  to  conventionalise 
the  beauty  of  this  world  into  decorative  patterns  for 
our  pilgrim  tents.  It  is  a  phase,  and  will  melt  into 
other  phases ;  but  it  tends  to  the  increase  of  arti« 
ficiality,  and  exists  not  only  in  art  but  in  every- 
thing. It  is  no  new  thing  for  jaded  sentiment  to 
crave  the  spur  of  the  unnatural,  to  prefer  the  clever 
imitation,  to  live  in  a  Devachan  where  the  surroundings 
appear  that  which  we  would  have  them  to  be ;  but 
it  is  an  interesting  record  of  the  pulse  of  the  pre- 
sent day  that  '  An  Englishwoman's  Love  Letters ' 
should  have  taken  society  by  storm  in  the  way  it 
certainly  has. 

It  is  a  delightful  book  to  leave  about,  with  its  vellum 
binding,  dainty  ribbons,  and  the  hallmark  of  a  great 
publisher's  name.  But  when  we  seek  within  we  find 
love  with  its  thousand  voices  and  wayward  moods,  its 
shy  graces  and  seemly  reticences,  love  which  has  its 
throne  and  robe  of  state  as  well  as  the  garment  of  the 
beggar  maid,  love  which  is  before  time  was,  which  knew 
the  world  when  the  stars  took  up  their  courses,  pre- 
sented to  us  in  gushing  outpourings,  the  appropriate 
language  of  a  woman's  heart  to  the  boor  she  delights 
to  honour. 

"It  is  woman  who  is  the  glory  of  man,"  says  the 
66 


OUT    OF    THE    SHADOW 

author  of  '  The  House  of  Wisdom  and  Love,'  "  Regina 
mundi,  greater,  because  so  far  the  less  ;  and  man  is  her 
head,  but  only  as  he  serves  his  queen."  Set  this  sober 
aphorism  against  the  school  girl  love-making  which 
kisses  a  man's  feet  and  gaily  refuses  him  the  barren 
honour  of  having  loved  her  first. 

There  is  scant  need  for  the  apologia  which  precedes 
the  letters ;  a  few  pages  dispels  the  fear  that  we  are 
prying  into  another's  soul.  As  for  the  authorship, 
there  is  a  woman's  influence,  an  artist's  poorly  concealed 
bias  in  the  foreign  letters ;  and  for  the  rest  a  man's 
blunders — so  much  easier  to  see  in  another  than  to 
avoid  oneself — writ  large  from  cover  to  cover.  King 
Cophetua,  who  sends  his  "  profoundly  grateful  re- 
membrances," has  most  surely  written  the  letters  he 
would  wish  to  receive. 

"  Mrs  Meynell !  "  cries  one  reviewer,  triumphantly. 
Nay,  the  saints  be  good  to  us,  what  has  Mrs  Meynell 
in  common  with  the  "  Englishwoman's "  language, 
style,  or  most  unconvincing  passion  ?  Men  can  write 
as  from  a  woman's  heart  when  they  are  minded  to  do 
so  in  desperate  earnestness — there  is  Clarissa  Harlowe 
and  Stevenson's  Kirstie,  and  many  more  to  prove  it ; 
but  when  a  man  writes  as  the  author  of  the  "  Love 
Letters  "  writes,  I  feel,  as  did  the  painter  of  the  frieze, 
that  pattern-making  has  gone  too  far  and  included 

67 


THE    ROADMENDER 

that  which,  like  the  grass,  should  be  spared  such  a 
convention. 

"  I  quite  agree  with  you,"  said  the  Duchess,  "  and 
the  moral  of  that  is — '  Be  what  you  would  seem  to 
be ' — or,  if  you'd  like  to  put  it  more  simply — '  never 
imagine  yourself  not  to  be  otherwise  than  what  it 
might  appear  to  others  that  what  you  were  or  might 
have  been  was  not  otherwise  than  what  you  had  been 
would  have  appeared  to  them  to  be  otherwise.' '  And 
so  by  way  of  the  Queen's  garden  I  come  back  to  my 
room  again. 

My  heart's  affections  are  still  centred  on  my  old 
attic,  with  boarded  floor  and  whitewashed  walls,  where 
the  sun  blazoned  a  frieze  of  red  and  gold  until  he 
travelled  too  far  towards  the  north,  the  moon  streamed 
in  to  paint  the  trees  in  inky  wavering  shadows,  and 
the  stars  flashed  their  glory  to  me  across  the  years. 
But  now  sun  and  moon  greet  me  only  indirectly :  and 
under  the  red  roses  hang  pictures,  some  of  them  the 
dear  companions  of  my  days.  Opposite  me  is  the 
Arundel  print  of  the  Presentation,  painted  by  the 
gentle  "  Brother  of  the  Angels."  Priest  Simeon,  a 
stately  figure  in  green  and  gold,  great  with  prophecy, 
gazes  adoringly  at  the  Bambino  he  holds  with  fatherly 
care.  Our  Lady,  in  robe  of  red  and  veil  of  shadowed 
purple,  is  instinct  with  light  despite  the  sombre  colour- 
68 


OUT    OF    THE    SHADOW 

ing,  as  she  stretches  out  hungering,  awe-struck  hands 
for  her  soul's  delight.  St  Joseph,  dignified  guardian 
and  servitor,  stands  behind,  holding  the  Sacrifice  of 
the  Poor  to  redeem  the  First-begotten. 

St  Peter  Martyr  and  the  Dominican  nun,  gazing 
in  rapt  contemplation  at  the  scene,  are  not  one  whit 
surprised  to  find  themselves  in  the  presence  of  eternal 
mysteries.  In  the  Entombment,  which  hangs  on  the 
opposite  wall,  St  Dominic  comes  round  the  corner  full 
of  grievous  amaze  and  tenderest  sympathy,  but  with 
no  sense  of  shock  or  intrusion,  for  was  he  not  "  famigliar 
di  Cristo  "  ?  And  so  he  takes  it  all  in ;  the  stone  bed 
empty  and  waiting ;  the  Beloved  cradled  for  the  last 
time  on  His  mother's  knees  to  be  washed,  lapped 
round,  and  laid  to  rest  as  if  He  were  again  the  Babe 
of  Bethlehem.  He  sees  the  Magdalen  anointing  the 
Sacred  Feet ;  Blessed  John  caring  for  the  living  and 
the  Dead ;  and  he,  Dominic — hound  of  the  Lord — 
having  his  real,  living  share  in  the  anguish  and  hope, 
the  bedding  of  the  dearest  Dead,  who  did  but  leave 
this  earth  that  He  might  manifest  Himself  more 
completely. 

Underneath,  with  a  leap  across  the  centuries,  is 
Rossetti's  picture ;  Dante  this  time  the  onlooker, 
Beatrice,  in  her  pale  beauty,  the  death-kissed  one. 
The  same  idea  under  different  representations ;  the 

69 


one  conceived  in  childlike  simplicity,  the  other  recall- 
ing, even  in  the  photograph,  its  wealth  of  colour  and 
imagining ;  the  one  a  world-wide  ideal,  the  other  an 
individual  expression  of  it. 

Beatrice  was  to  Dante  the  inclusion  of  belief.  She 
was  more  to  him  than  he  himself  knew,  far  more  to 
him  after  her  death  than  before.  And,  therefore,  the 
analogy  between  the  pictures  has  at  core  a  common 
reality.  "  It  is  expedient  for  you  that  I  go  away," 
is  constantly  being  said  to  us  as  we  cling  earthlike 
to  the  outward  expression,  rather  than  to  the  inward 
manifestation — and  blessed  are  those  who  hear  and 
understand,  for  it  is  spoken  only  to  such  as  have  been 
with  Him  from  the  beginning.  The  eternal  mysteries 
come  into  time  for  us  individually  under  widely  differ- 
ing forms.  The  tiny  child  mothers  its  doll,  croons 
to  it,  spends  herself  upon  it,  why  she  cannot  tell  you ; 
and  we  who  are  here  in  our  extreme  youth,  never  to 
be  men  and  women  grown  in  this  world,  nurse  our  ideal, 
exchange  it,  refashion  it,  call  it  by  many  names ;  and 
at  last  in  here  or  hereafter  we  find  in  its  naked  truth  the 
Child  in  the  manger,  even  as  the  Wise  Men  found  Him 
when  they  came  from  the  East  to  seek  a  great  King. 
There  is  but  one  necessary  condition  of  this  finding ; 
we  must  follow  the  particular  manifestation  of  light 
given  us,  never  resting  until  it  rests — over  the  place 
70 


OUT    OF    THE    SHADOW 

of  the  Child.  And  there  is  but  one  insurmountable 
hindrance,  the  extinction  of  or  drawing  back  from 
the  light  truly  apprehended  by  us.  We  forget  this, 
and  judge  other  men  by  the  light  of  our  own  soul. 

I  think  the  old  bishop  must  have  understood  it. 
He  is  my  friend  of  friends  as  he  lies  opposite  my  window 
in  his  alabaster  sleep,  clad  in  pontifical  robes,  with 
unshod  feet,  a  little  island  of  white  peace  in  a  many- 
coloured  marble  sea.  The  faithful  sculptor  has  given 
every  line  and  wrinkle,  the  heavy  eyelids  and  sunken 
face  of  tired  old  age,  but  withal  the  smile  of  a  contented 
child. 

I  do  not  even  know  my  bishop's  name,  only  that 
the  work  is  of  the  thirteenth  century ;  but  he  is  good 
to  company  with  through  the  day,  for  he  has  known 
darkness  and  light  and  the  minds  of  many  men  ;  most 
surely,  too,  he  has  known  that  God  fulfils  Himself 
in  strange  ways,  so  with  the  shadow  of  his  feet  upon 
the  polished  floor  he  rests  in  peace. 


IV 

ON  Sunday  my  little  tree  was  limned  in  white  and  the 
sparrows  were  craving  shelter  at  my  window  from  the 
blizzard.  Now  the  mild  thin  air  brings  a  breath  of 
spring  in  its  wake  and  the  daffodils  in  the  garden  wait 
the  kisses  of  the  sun.  Hand-in-hand  with  memory  I 
slip  away  down  the  years,  and  remember  a  day  when 
I  awoke  at  earliest  dawn,  for  across  my  sleep  I  had 
heard  the  lusty  golden-throated  trumpeters  heralding 
the  spring. 

The  air  was  sharp-set.;  a  delicate  rime  frosted  roof 
arid  road ;  the  sea  lay  hazy  and  still  like  a  great  pearl. 
Then  as  the  sky  stirred  with  flush  upon  flush  of  warm 
rosy  light,  it  passed  from  misty  pearl  to  opal  with  heart 
of  flame,  from  opal  to  gleaming  sapphire.  The  earth 
called,  the  fields  called,  the  river  called — that  pied 
piper  to  whose  music  a  man  cannot  stop  his  ears.  It 
was  with  me  as  with  the  Canterbury  pilgrims  : — 

"  So  priketh  hem  nature  in  hir  corages  ; 
Than  longen  folk  to  gon  on  pilgrimages." 

Half  an  hour  later  I  was  away  by  the  early  train 
72 


The  field-gate  that  leads  to  the  lower  meadows 


172 


OUT    OF    THE    SHADOW 

that  carries  the  branch  mails  and  a  few  workmen,  and 
was  delivered  at  the  little  wayside  station  with  the 
letters.  The  kind  air  went  singing  past  as  I  swung 
along  the  reverberating  road  between  the  high  tree- 
crowned  banks  which  we  call  hedges  in  merry  Devon, 
with  all  the  world  to  myself  and  the  Brethren.  A  great 
blackbird  flew  out  with  a  loud  "  chook,  chook,"  and 
the  red  of  the  haw  on  his  yellow  bilL  A  robin  trilled 
from  a  low  rose-bush ;  two  wrens  searched  diligently 
on  a  fallen  tree  for  breakfast,  quite  unconcerned  when 
I  rested  a  moment  beside  them ;  and  a  shrewmouse 
slipped  across  the  road  followed  directly  by  its  mate. 
March  violets  bloomed  under  the  sheltered  hedge  with 
here  and  there  a  pale  primrose ;  a  frosted  bramble  spray 
still  held  its  autumn  tints  clinging  to  the  semblance 
of  the  past ;  and  great  branches  of  snowy  blackthorn 
broke  the  barren  hedgeway  as  if  spring  made  a  mock 
of  winter's  snows. 

Light  of  heart  and  foot  with  the  new  wine  of  the  year 
I  sped  on  again,  stray  daffodils  lighting  the  wayside, 
until  I  heard  the  voice  of  the  stream  and  reached  the 
field  gate  which  leads  to  the  lower  meadows.  There 
before  me  lay  spring's  pageant ;  green  pennons  waving, 
dainty  maids  curtseying,  and  a  host  of  joyous  yellow 
trumpeters  proclaiming  '  Victory '  to  an  awakened 
earth.  They  range  in  serried  ranks  right  down  to 

73 


THE    ROADMENDER 

the  river,  so  that  a  man  must  walk  warily  to  reach 
the  water's  edge  where  they  stand  gazing  down  at 
themselves  in  fairest  semblance  like  their  most  tragic 
progenitor,  and,  rising  from  the  bright  grass  in  their 
thousands,  stretch  away  until  they  melt  in  a  golden 
cloud  at  the  far  end  of  the  misty  mead.  Through  the 
field  gate  and  across  the  road  I  see  them,  starring  the 
steep  earth  bank  that  leads  to  the  upper  copse,  gleaming 
like  pale  flames  against  the  dark  tree-boles.  There 
they  have  but  frail  tenure ;  here,  in  the  meadows, 
they  reign  supreme. 

At  the  upper  end  of  the  field  the  river  provides  yet 
closer  sanctuary  for  these  children  of  the  spring.  Held 
in  its  embracing  arms  lies  an  island  long  and  narrow, 
some  thirty  feet  by  twelve,  a  veritable  untrod 
Eldorado,  glorious  in  gold  from  end  to  end,  a  fringe 
of  reeds  by  the  water's  edge,  and  save  for  that — 
daffodils.  A  great  oak  stands  at  the  meadow's 
neck,  an  oak  with  gnarled  and  wandering  roots 
where  a  man  may  rest,  for  it  is  bare  of  daffodils 
save  for  a  group  of  three,  and  a  solitary  one 
apart  growing  close  to  the  old  tree's  side.  I  sat 
down  by  my  lonely  little  sister,  blue  sky  over- 
head, green  grass  at  my  feet  decked,  like  the 
pastures  of  the  Blessed,  in  glorious  sheen ;  a  sea 
of  triumphant,  golden  heads  tossing  blithely  back 
74 


A  host  of  joyous  yellow  trumpeters 


174 


OUT    OF    THE    SHADOW 

as  the  wind  swept  down  to  play  with  them  at  his 
pleasure. 

It  was  all  mine  to  have  and  to  hold  without  sever- 
ing a  single  slender  stem  or  harbouring  a  thought  of 
covetousness ;  mine,  as  the  whole  earth  was  mine,  to 
appropriate  to  myself  without  the  burden  and  bane 
of  worldly  possession.  "  Thou  sayest  that  I  am — a 
King,"  said  the  Lord  before  Pilate,  and  "  My  kingdom 
is  not  of  this  world."  We  who  are  made  kings  after 
His  likeness  possess  all  things,  not  after  this  world's 
fashion  but  in  proportion  to  our  poverty ;  and  when  we 
cease  to  toil  and  spin,  are  arrayed  as  the  lilies,  in  a  glory 
transcending  Solomon's.  Bride  Poverty — she  who 
climbed  the  Cross  with  Christ — stretches  out  eager 
hands  to  free  us  from  our  chains,  but  we  flee  from  her, 
and  lay  up  treasure  against  her  importunity,  while 
Amytas  on  his  seaweed  bed  weeps  tears  of  pure  pity 
for  crave-mouth  Caesar  of  great  possessions. 

Presently  another  of  spring's  lovers  cried  across 
the  water  "  Cuckoo,  cuckoo,"  and  the  voice  of  the 
stream  sang  joyously  in  unison.  It  is  free  from  burden, 
this  merry  little  river,  and  neither  weir  nor  mill  bars 
its  quick  way  to  the  sea  as  it  completes  the  eternal 
circle,  lavishing  gifts  of  coolness  and  refreshment  on 
the  children  of  the  meadows. 

It  has  its  birth  on  the  great  lone  moor,  cradled 

75 


THE    ROADMENDER 

in  a  wonderful  peat-smelling  bog,  with  a  many-hued 
coverlet  of  soft  mosses — pale  gold,  orange,  emerald, 
tawny,  olive  and  white,  with  the  red  stain  of  sun-dew 
and  tufted  cotton-grass.  Under  the  old  grey  rocks 
which  watch  it  rise,  yellow-eyed  tormantil  stars  the  turf, 
and  bids  "  Godspeed  "  to  the  little  child  of  earth  and 
sky.  Thus  the  journey  begins  ;  and  with  ever-increasing 
strength  the  stream  carves  a  way  through  the  dear 
brown  peat,  wears  a  fresh  wrinkle  on  the  patient  stones, 
and  patters  merrily  under  a  clapper  bridge  which 
spanned  its  breadth  when  the  mistletoe  reigned  and 
Bottor,  the  grim  rock  idol,  exacted  the  toll  of  human 
life  that  made  him  great.  On  and  on  goes  the  stream, 
for  it  may  not  stay ;  leaving  of  its  freshness  with  the 
great  osmunda  that  stretches  eager  roots  towards  the 
running  water  ;  flowing  awhile  with  a  brother  stream, 
to  part  again  east  and  west  as  each  takes  up  his  separate 
burden  of  service — my  friend  to  cherish  the  lower 
meadows  in  their  flowery  joyance — and  so  by  the  great 
sea-gate  back  to  sky  and  earth  again. 

The  river  of  God  is  full  of  water.  The  streets  of 
the  City  are  pure  gold.  Verily,  here  also  having 
nothing  we  possess  all  things. 

The  air  was  keen  and  still  as  I  walked  back  in  the 
early  evening,  and  a  daffodil  light  was  in  the  sky 

76 


OUT    OF    THE    SHADOW 

as  if  Heaven  mirrored  back  earth's  radiance.  Near 
the  station  some  children  flitted  past,  like  little  white 
miller  moths  homing  through  the  dusk.  As  I  climbed 
the  hill  the  moon  rode  high  in  a  golden  field — it  was 
daffodils  to  the  last. 


tt 


THE  seagulls  from  the  upper  reaches  pass  down  the 
river  in  sober  steady  flight  seeking  the  open  sea.  I 
shall  miss  the  swoop  and  circle  of  silver  wings  in  the 
sunlight  and  the  plaintive  call  which  sounds  so  strangely 
away  from  rock  and  shore,  but  it  is  good  to  know 
that  they  have  gone  from  mudbank  and  murky  town 
back  to  the  free  airs  of  their  inheritance,  to  the  shadow 
of  sun-swept  cliffs  and  the  curling  crest  of  the  wind- 
beaten  waves,  to  brood  again  over  the  great  ocean 
of  a  world's  tears. 

My  little  tree  is  gemmed  with  buds,  shy,  immature, 
but  full  of  promise.  The  sparrows  busied  with  nest- 
building  in  the  neighbouring  pipes  and  gutters  use  it 
for  a  vantage  ground,  and  crowd  there  in  numbers, 
each  little  beak  sealed  with  long  golden  straw  or  downy 
feather. 

The  river  is  heavy  with  hay  barges,  the  last  fruits 
of  winter's  storehouse ;  the  lengthening  days  slowly 
and  steadily  oust  the  dark ;  the  air  is  loud  with  a 
growing  clamour  of  life  :  spring  is  not  only  proclaimed, 
but  on  this  Feast  she  is  crowned,  and  despite  the 
78 


OUT    OF    THE    SHADOW 

warring  wind  the  days  bring  their  meed  of  sunshine. 
We  stand  for  a  moment  at  the  meeting  of  the  ways, 
the  handclasp  of  Winter  and  Spring,  of  Sleep  and 
Wakening,  of  Life  and  Death ;  and  there  is  between 
them  not  even  the  thin  line  which  Rabbi  Jochanan 
on  his  death-bed  beheld  as  all  that  divided  hell  from 
heaven. 

"  Sphosra  cujus  centrum  ubique,  circumferentia 
nullibi"  was  said  of  Mercury,  that  messenger  of  the 
gods  who  marshalled  reluctant  spirits  to  the  Under- 
world ;  and  for  Mercury  we  may  write  Life  with  Death 
as  its  great  sacrament  of  brotherhood  and  release,  to 
be  dreaded  only  as  we  dread  to  partake  unworthily  of 
great  benefits.  Like  all  sacraments  it  has  its  rightful 
time  and  due  solemnities  ;  the  horror  and  sin  of  suicide 
lie  in  the  presumption  of  free  will,  the  forestalling  of 
a  gift, — the  sin  of  Eve  in  Paradise,  who  took  that  which 
might  only  be  given  at  the  hand  of  the  Lord.  It 
has  too  its  physical  pains,  but  they  are  those  of  a 
woman  in  travail,  and  we  remember  them  no  more 
for  joy  that  a  child-man  is  born  into  the  world  naked 
and  not  ashamed :  beholding  ourselves  as  we  are  we 
shall  see  also  the  leaves  of  the  Tree  of  Life  set  for  the 
healing  of  the  nations. 

We  are  slowly,  very  slowly,  abandoning  our  belief 
in  sudden  and  violent  transitions  for  a  surer  and  fuller 

79 


THE    ROADMENDER 

acceptance  of  the  doctrine  of  evolution;  but  most 
of  us  still  draw  a  sharp  line  of  demarcation  between 
this  world  and  the  next,  and  expect  a  radical  change 
in  ourselves  and  our  surroundings,  a  break  in  the  chain 
of  continuity  entirely  contrary  to  the  teaching  of  nature 
and  experience.  In  the  same  way  we  cling  to  the 
specious  untruth  that  we  can  begin  over  and  over 
again  in  this  world,  forgetting  that  while  our  sorrow 
and  repentance  bring  sacramental  gifts  of  grace  and 
strength,  God  Himself  cannot,  by  His  own  limitation, 
rewrite  the  Past.  We  are  in  our  sorrow  that  which 
we  have  made  ourselves  in  our  sin ;  our  temptations 
are  there  as  well  as  the  way  of  escape.  We  are  in  the 
image  of  God.  We  create  our  world,  our  undying 
selves,  our  heaven,  or  our  hell.  "  Qui  creavit  te  sine 
te  non  s  ah  obit  te  sine  te."  It  is  stupendous,  magnificent, 
and  most  appalling.  A  man  does  not  change  as  he 
crosses  the  threshold  of  the  larger  room.  His  per- 
sonality remains  the  same,  although  the  expression 
of  it  may  be  altered.  Here  we  have  material  bodies 
in  a  material  world — there,  perhaps,  ether  bodies  in 
an  ether  world.  There  is  no  indecency  in  reason- 
able speculation  and  curiosity  about  the  life  to  come. 
One  end  of  the  thread  is  between  our  fingers,  but  we 
are  haunted  for  the  most  part  by  the  snap  of  Atropos' 
shears. 
80 


OUT    OF    THE    SHADOW 

Socrates  faced  death  with  the  magnificent  calm 
bred  of  dignified  familiarity.  He  had  built  for  himself 
a  desired  heaven  of  colour,  light,  and  precious  stones 
—the  philosophic  formula  of  those  who  set  the  spiritual 
above  the  material,  and  worship  truth  in  the  beauty 
of  holiness.  He  is  not  troubled  by  doubts  or  regrets, 
for  the  path  of  the  just  lies  plain  before  his  face.  He 
forbids  mourning  and  lamentations  as  out  of  place, 
obeys  minutely  and  cheerily  the  directions  of  his 
executioner,  and  passes  with  unaffected  dignity  to  the 
apprehension  of  that  larger  truth  for  which  he  had 
constantly  prepared  himself.  His  friends  may  bury 
him  provided  they  will  remember  they  are  not  burying 
Socrates ;  and  that  all  things  may  be  done  decently 
and  in  order,  a  cock  must  go  to  ^Esculapius. 

Long  before,  in  the  days  of  the  Captivity,  there  lived 
in  godless,  blood-shedding  Nineveh  an  exiled  Jew  whose 
father  had  fallen  from  the  faith.  He  was  a  simple 
man,  child-like  and  direct ;  living  the  careful,  kindly 
life  of  an  orthodox  Jew,  suffering  many  persecutions 
for  conscience'  sake,  and  in  constant  danger  of  death. 
He  narrates  the  story  of  his  life  and  of  the  blindness 
which  fell  on  him,  with  gentle  placidity,  and  checks 
the  exuberance  of  his  more  emotional  wife  with  the 
assurance  of  untroubled  faith.  Finally,  when  his 
pious  expectations  are  fulfilled,  his  sight  restored,  and 
F  81 


THE    ROADMENDER 

his  son  prosperously  established  beside  him,  he  breaks 
into  a  prayer  of  rejoicing  which  reveals  the  secret 
of  his  confident  content.  He  made  use  of  two  great 
faculties :  the  sense  of  proportion,  which  enabled  him 
to  apprise  life  and  its  accidents  justly,  and  the  gift 
of  inseeing,  which  led  Socrates  after  him,  and  Blessed 
John  in  lonely  exile  on  Patmos,  to  look  through  the 
things  temporal  to  the  hidden  meanings  of  eternity. 

"  Let  my  soul  bless  God  the  great  King,"  he  cries ; 
and  looks  away  past  the  present  distress ;  past  the 
Restoration  which  was  to  end  in  fresh  scattering  and 
confusion ;  past  the  dream  of  gold,  and  porphyry, 
and  marble  defaced  by  the  eagles  and  emblems  of  the 

*/  o 

conqueror  ;  until  his  eyes  are  held  by  the  Jerusalem 
of  God,  "  built  up  with  sapphires,  and  emeralds,  and 
precious  stones,"  with  battlements  of  pure  gold,  and 
the  cry  of  '  Alleluia '  in  her  streets. 

Many  years  later,  when  he  was  very  aged,  he  called 
his  son  to  him  and  gave  him  as  heritage  his  own  simple 
rule  of  life,  adding  but  one  request :  "  Keep  thou 
the  law  and  the  commandments,  and  shew  thyself 
merciful  and  just,  that  it  may  go  well  with  thee.  .  .  . 
Consider  what  alms  doeth,  and  how  righteousness 
doth  deliver.  .  .  .  And  bury  me  decently,  and  thy 
mother  with  me."  Having  so  said,  he  went  his  way 
quietly  and  contentedly  to  the  Jerusalem  of  his  heart. 
82 


OUT    OF    THE    SHADOW 

It  is  the  simple  note  of  familiarity  that  is  wanting 
in  us  ;  that  by  which  we  link  world  with  world.  Once, 
years  ago,  I  sat  by  the  bedside  of  a  dying  man  in  a 
wretched  garret  in  the  East  End.  He  was  entirely 
ignorant,  entirely  quiescent,  and  entirely  uninterested. 
The  minister  of  a  neighbouring  chapel  came  to  see 
him  and  spoke  to  him  at  some  length  of  the  need  for 
repentance  and  the  joys  of  heaven.  After  he  had  gone 
my  friend  lay  staring  restlessly  at  the  mass  of  decrepit 
broken  chimney  pots  which  made  his  horizon.  At  last 
he  spoke,  and  there  was  a  new  note  in  his  voice  : — 

"  Ee  said  as  'ow  there  were  golding  streets  in  them 
parts.  I  ain't  no  ways  particler  wot  they're  made  of, 
but  it'll  feel  natral  like  if  there's  cbimleys  too." 

The  sun  stretched  a  sudden  finger  and  painted  the 
chimney  pots  red  and  gold  against  the  smoke-dimmed 
sky,  and  with  his  face  alight  with  surprised  relief  my 
friend  died. 

We  are  one  with  the  earth,  one  in  sin,  one  in  redemp- 
tion. It  is  the  fringe  of  the  garment  of  God.  "  If 
I  may  but  touch  the  hem,"  said  a  certain  woman. 

On  the  great  Death-day  which  shadows  the  early 
spring  with  a  shadow  of  which  it  may  be  said  Umbra 
Dei  est  Lux,  the  earth  brought  gifts  of  grief,  the  fruit 
of  the  curse,  barren  thorns,  hollow  reed,  and  the  wood 
of  the  cross ;  the  sea  made  offering  of  Tyrian  purple ; 

83 


THE    ROADMENDER 

the  sky  veiled  her  face  in  great  darkness,  while  the 
nation  of  priests  crucified  for  the  last  time  their  Paschal 
lamb.  "  I  will  hear,  saith  the  Lord ;  I  will  hear  the 
heavens,  and  they  shall  hear  the  earth,  and  the  earth 
shall  hear  the  corn  and  wine  and  oil,  and  they  shall 
hear  Jezreel,  and  I  will  sow  her  unto  me  in  the  earth ; 
and  I  will  have  mercy  upon  her  that  had  not  obtained 
mercy,  and  I  will  say  unto  them  which  were  not  my 
people,  '  Thou  art  my  people,'  and  they  shall  say  '  Thou 
art  my  God.'  " 

The  second  Adam  stood  in  the  garden  with  quickening 
feet,  and  all  the  earth  pulsed  and  sang  for  joy  of  the 
new  hope  and  the  new  life  quickening  within  her, 
to  be  hers  through  the  pains  of  travail,  the  pangs  of 
dissolution.  The  Tree  of  Life  bears  Bread  and  Wine 
—food  of  the  wayfaring  man.  The  day  of  divisions 
is  past,  the  day  of  unity  has  dawned.  One  has  risen 
from  the  dead,  and  in  the  Valley  of  Achor  stands  wide 
the  Door  of  Hope — the  Sacrament  of  Death. 

Sfio  Domine,  ct  vere  scio  .  .  .  quia  non  sum  dignus  accedere 
ad  tantum  mysterium  propter  nimia  peccata  mea  et  infinitas 
neglipentias  meas.  Sed  scio  .  .  ,  quia  tu  potes  me  facere 

digttum. 


84 


In  the  distance  rise  the  great  lone  heavenward  hills 


184 


VI 

"  ANYTUS  and  Meletus  can  kill  me,  but  they  cannot 
hurt  me,"  said  Socrates ;  and  Governor  Sancho,  with 
all  the  itch  of  newly-acquired  authority,  could  not 
make  the  young  weaver  of  steel-heads  for  lances  sleep 
in  prison.  In  the  Vision  of  Er  the  souls  passed  straight 
forward  under  the  throne  of  necessity,  and  out  into 
the  plains  of  forgetfulness,  where  they  must  severally 
drink  of  the  river  of  unmindfulness  whose  waters  cannot 
be  held  in  any  vessel.  The  throne,  the  plain,  and  the 
river  are  still  here,  but  in  the  distance  rise  the  great 
lone  heavenward  hills,  and  the  wise  among  us  no 
longer  ask  of  the  gods  Lethe,  but  rather  remembrance. 
Necessity  can  set  me  helpless  on  my  back,  but  she  cannot 
keep  me  there ;  nor  can  four  walls  limit  my  vision. 
I  pass  out  from  under  her  throne  into  the  garden  of 
God  a  free  man,  to  my  ultimate  beatitude  or  my  exceed- 
ing shame.  All  day  long  this  world  lies  open  to  me ; 
ay,  and  other  worlds  also,  if  I  will  but  have  it  so ;  and 
when  night  comes  I  pass  into  the  kingdom  and  power 
of  the  dark. 

I  lie  through  the  long  hours  and  watch  my  bridge, 

85 


THE    ROADMENDER 

which  is  set  with  lights  across  the  gloom;  watch  the  traffic 
which  is  for  me  but  so  many  passing  lamps  telling  their 
tale  by  varying  height  and  brightness.  I  hear  under 
my  window  the  sprint  of  over-tired  horses  ;  the  rattle 
of  uncertain  wheels  as  the  street-sellers  hasten  south ; 
the  jangle  of  cab  bells  as  the  theatre-goers  take  their 
homeward  way ;  the  gruff  altercation  of  weary  men, 
the  unmelodious  song  and  clamorous  laugh  of  women 
whose  merriment  is  wearier  still.  Then  comes  a  time 
of  stillness  when  the  light  in  the  sky  waxes  and  wanes, 
when  the  cloud-drifts  obscure  the  stars,  and  I  gaze 
out  into  blackness  set  with  watching  eyes.  No  sound 
comes  from  without  but  the  voice  of  the  night-wind 
and  the  cry  of  the  hour.  The  clock  on  the  mantel- 
piece ticks  imperatively,  for  a  check  has  fallen  on  the 
familiarity  which  breeds  a  disregard  of  common  things, 
and  a  reason  has  to  be  sought  for  each  sound  which 
claims  a  hearing.  The  pause  is  wonderful  while  it 
lasts,  but  it  is  not  for  long.  The  working  world  awakes, 
the  poorer  brethren  take  up  the  burden  of  service ; 
the  dawn  lights  the  sky ;  remembrance  cries  an  end 
to  forgetting. 

Sometimes  in  the  country  on  a  night  in  early  summer 

you  may  shut  the  cottage  door  to  step  out  into  an 

immense    darkness    which    palls    heaven    and    earth. 

Going  forward  into  the  embrace  of  the  great  gloom, 

86 


OUT    OF    THE    SHADOW 

you  are  as  a  babe  swaddled  by  the  hands  of  night  into 
helpless  quiescence.  Your  feet  tread  an  unseen  path, 
your  hands  grasp  at  a  void,  or  shrink  from  the  contact 
they  cannot  realise ;  your  eyes  are  holden ;  your  voice 
would  die  in  your  throat  did  you  seek  to  rend  the  veil 
of  that  impenetrable  silence. 

Shut  in  by  the  intangible  dark,  we  are  brought  up 
against  those  worlds  within  worlds  blotted  out  by 
our  concrete  daily  life.  The  working  of  the  great 
microcosm  at  which  we  peer  dimly  through  the  little 
window  of  science ;  the  wonderful,  breathing  earth ; 
the  pulsing,  throbbing  sap ;  the  growing  fragrance 
shut  in  the  calyx  of  to-morrow's  flower ;  the  heart- 
beat of  a  sleeping  world  that  we  dream  that  we  know ; 
and  around,  above,  and  interpenetrating  all,  the  world 
of  dreams,  of  angels  and  of  spirits. 

It  was  this  world  which  Jacob  saw  on  the  first  night 
of  his  exile,  and  again  when  he  wrestled  in  Peniel  until 
the  break  of  day.  It  was  this  world  which  Elisha 
saw  with  open  eyes ;  which  Job  knew  when  darkness 
fell  on  him ;  which  Ezekiel  gazed  into  from  his  place 
among  the  captives ;  which  Daniel  beheld  as  he  stood 
alone  by  the  great  river,  the  river  Hiddekel. 

For  the  moment  we  have  left  behind  the  realm  of 
question  and  explanation,  of  power  over  matter  and 
the  exercise  of  bodily  faculties ;  and  passed  into  darkness 

87 


THE    ROADMENDER 

alight  with  visions  we  cannot  see,  into  silence  alive 
with  voices  we  cannot  hear.  Like  helpless  men  we  set 
our  all  on  the  one  thing  left  us,  and  lift  up  our  hearts, 
knowing  that  we  are  but  a  mere  speck  among  a  myriad 
worlds,  yet  greater  than  the  sum  of  them ;  having 
our  roots  in  the  dark  places  of  the  earth,  but  our 
branches  in  the  sweet  airs  of  heaven. 

It  is  the  material  counterpart  of  the  '  Night  of  the 
Soul.'  We  have  left  our  house  and  set  forth  in  the 
darkness  which  paralyses  those  faculties  that  make 
us  men  in  the  world  of  men.  But  surely  the  great 
mystics,  with  all  their  insight  and  heavenly  love, 
fell  short  when  they  sought  freedom  in  complete 
separateness  from  creation  instead  of  in  perfect  unity 
with  it.  The  Greeks  knew  better  when  they  flung 
Ariadne's  crown  among  the  stars,  and  wrote  Demeter's 
grief  on  a  barren  earth,  and  Persephone's  joy  in  the 
fruitful  field.  For  the  earth  is  gathered  up  in  man ; 
he  is  the  whole  which  is  greater  than  the  sum  of  its 
parts.  Standing  in  the  image  of  God,  and  clothed  in 
the  garment  of  God,  he  lifts  up  priestly  hands  and 
presents  the  sacrifice  of  redeemed  earth  before  the 
throne  of  the  All-Father.  "  Dust  and  ashes  and  a 
house  of  devils,"  he  cries;  and  there  comes  back 
for  answer,  "  Rex  concupiscet  decor  em  tuam." 

The  Angel  of  Death  has  broad  wings  of  silence  and 
88 


OUT    OF    THE    SHADOW 

mystery  with  which  he  shadows  the  valley  where  we 
need  fear  no  evil,  and  where  the  voice  which  speaks 
to  us  is  as  the  "  voice  of  doves,  tabering  upon  their 
breasts."  It  is  a  place  of  healing  and  preparation, 
of  peace  and  refreshing  after  the  sharply-defined 
outlines  of  a  garish  day.  Walking  there  we  learn  to 
use  those  natural  faculties  of  the  soul  which  are 
hampered  by  the  familiarity  of  bodily  progress,  to 
apprehend  the  truths  which  we  have  intellectually 
accepted.  It  is  the  place  of  secrets  where  the  humility 
which  embraces  all  attainable  knowledge  cries  "  I 
know  not " ;  and  while  we  proclaim  from  the  house- 
tops that  which  we  have  learnt,  the  manner  of  our 
learning  Lies  hid  for  each  one  of  us  in  the  sanctuary  of 
our  souls. 

The  Egyptians,  in  their  ancient  wisdom,  set  in  the 
desert  a  great  androsphinx,  image  of  mystery  and  silence, 
staring  from  under  level  brows  across  the  arid  sands 
of  the  sea-way.  The  Greeks  borrowed  and  debased 
the  image,  turning  the  inscrutable  into  a  semi-woman 
who  asked  a  foolish  riddle,  and  hurled  herself  down 
in  petulant  pride  when  (Edipus  answered  aright.  So 
we,  marring  the  office  of  silence,  question  its  mystery ; 
thwart  ourselves  with  riddles  of  our  own  suggesting ; 
and  turn  away,  leaving  our  offering  but  half  consumed 
on  the  altar  of  the  unknown  god.  It  was  not  the  theft 

89 


THE    ROADMENDER 

of  fire  that  brought  the  vengeance  of  heaven  upon 
Prometheus,  but  the  mocking  sacrifice.  Orpheus  lost 
Eurydice  because  he  must  see  her  face  before  the 
appointed  time.  Persephone  ate  of  the  pomegranate 
and  hungered  in  gloom  for  the  day  of  light  which  should 
have  been  endless. 

The  universe  is  full  of  miracle  and  mystery;  the 
darkness  and  silence  are  set  for  a  sign  we  dare  not 
despise.  The  pall  of  night  lifts,  leaving  us  engulphed 
in  the  light  of  immensity  under  a  tossing  heaven  of 
stars.  The  dawn  breaks,  but  it  does  not  surprise  us, 
for  we  have  watched  from  the  valley  and  seen  the 
pale  twilight.  Through  the  wondrous  Sabbath  of 
faithful  souls,  the  long  day  of  rosemary  and  rue,  the 
light  brightens  in  the  East ;  and  we  pass  on  towards 
it  with  quiet  feet  and  opening  eyes,  bearing  with  us 
all  of  the  redeemed  earth  that  we  have  made  our  own, 
until  we  are  fulfilled  in  the  sunrise  of  the  great  Easter 
Day,  and  the  peoples  come  from  north  and  south  and 
east  and  west  to  the  City  which  lieth  foursquare — the 
Beatific  Vision  of  God. 

Vere  Jerusalem  est  ilia  civitas 
Cuius  pax  iugis  et  summa  iucunditas ; 
Ubi  non  praevenit  rem  desiderium, 
Nee  desiderio  minus  est  premium. 


AT  THE  WHITE  GATE 


A  GREAT  joy  has  come  to  me ;  one  of  those  unexpected 
gifts  which  life  loves  to  bestow  after  we  have  learnt 
to  loose  our  grip  of  her.  I  am  back  in  my  own  place 
very  near  my  road — the  white  gate  lies  within  my 
distant  vision ;  near  the  lean  grey  Downs  which  keep 
watch  and  ward  between  the  country  and  the  sea ; 
very  near,  nay,  in  the  lap  of  Mother  Earth,  for  as  I 
write  I  am  lying  on  a  green  carpet,  powdered  yellow 
and  white  with  the  sun's  own  flowers ;  overhead  a 
great  sycamore  where  the  bees  toil  and  sing ;  and 
sighing  shimmering  poplars  golden  grey  against  the 
blue.  The  day  of  Persephone  has  dawned  for  me, 
and  I,  set  free  like  Demeter's  child,  gladden  my  eyes 
with  this  foretaste  of  coming  radiance,  and  rest  my  tired 
sense  with  the  scent  and  sound  of  home.  Away  down 
the  meadow  I  hear  the  early  scythe  song,  and  the  warm 
air  is  fragrant  with  the  fallen  grass.  It  has  its  own 
message  for  me  as  I  lie  here,  I  who  have  obtained  yet 
one  more  mercy,  and  the  burden  of  it  is  life,  not  death. 
I  remember  when,  taking  a  grace  from  my  road, 
I  helped  to  mow  Farmer  Marler's  ten-acre  field,  rich 

93 


THE    ROADMENDER 

m  ripe  upstanding  grass.  The  mechanism  of  the 
ancient  reaper  had  given  way  under  the  strain  of 
the  home  meadows,  and  if  this  crop  was  to  be  saved 
it  must  be  by  hand.  I  have  kept  the  record  of  those 
days  of  joyous  labour  under  a  June  sky.  Men  were 
hard  to  get  in  our  village ;  old  Dodden,  who  was  over 
seventy,  volunteered  his  services — he  had  done  yeoman 
work  with  the  scythe  in  his  youth — and  two  of  the 
farm  hands  with  their  master  completed  our  strength. 

We  took  our  places  under  a  five  o'clock  morning 
sky,  and  the  larks  cried  down  to  us  as  we  stood  knee- 
deep  in  the  fragrant  dew-steeped  grass,  each  man  with 
his  gleaming  scythe  poised  ready  for  its  sweeping 
swing.  Old  Dodden  led  by  right  of  age  and  ripe  ex- 
perience ;  bent  like  a  sickle,  brown  and  dry  as  a  nut, 
his  face  a  tracery  of  innumerable  wrinkles,  he  has 
never  ailed  a  day,  and  the  cunning  of  his  craft  was  still 
with  him.  At  first  we  worked  stiffly,  unreadily,  but  soon 
the  monotonous  motion  possessed  us  with  its  insistent 
rhythm,  and  the  grass  bowed  to  each  sibilant  swish 
and  fell  in  sweet- smelling  swathes  at  our  feet.  Now 
and  then  a  startled  rabbit  scurried  through  tlie 
miniature  forest  to  vanish  with  white  flick  of  tail  in 
the  tangled  hedge ;  here  and  there  a  mother  lark  was 
discovered  sitting  motionless,  immovable  upon  her 
little  brood ;  but  save  for  these  infrequent  incidents 
94 


The  line  of  the  untroubled  hills  strong  and  still  in  the  broad 

sunshine 


194 


AT    THE    WHITE    GATE 

we  paced  steadily  on  with  no  speech  save  the  cry  of 
the  hone  on  the  steel  and  the  swish  of  the  falling  swathes. 
The  sun  rose  high  in  the  heaven  and  burnt  on  bent 
neck  and  bare  and  aching  arms,  the  blood  beat  and 
drummed  in  my  veins  with  the  unwonted  posture  and 
exercise ;  I  worked  as  a  man  who  sees  and  hears  in  a 
mist.  Once,  as  I  paused  to  whet  my  scythe,  my  eye 
caught  the  line  of  the  untroubled  hills  strong  and  still 
in  the  broad  sunshine ;  then  to  work  again  in  the 
labouring,  fertile  valley. 

Rest  time  came,  and  wiping  the  sweat  from  brow 
and  blade  we  sought  the  welcome  shadow  of  the  hedge 
and  the  cool  sweet  oatmeal  water  with  which  the  wise 
reaper  quenches  his  thirst.  Farmer  Marler  hastened 
off  to  see  with  master-eye  that  all  went  well  elsewhere ; 
the  farm  men  slept  tranquilly,  stretched  at  full  length, 
clasped  hands  for  pillow ;  and  old  Dodden,  sitting 
with  crooked  fingers  interlaced  to  check  their  trembling 
betrayal  of  old  age,  told  how  in  his  youth  he  had 
"  swep  "  a  four-acre  field  single-handed  in  three  days 
— an  almost  impossible  feat — and  of  the  first  reaping 
machine  in  these  parts,  and  how  it  brought,  to  his 
thinking,  the  ruin  of  agricultural  morals  with  it. 
"  'Tis  again  nature,"  he  said,  "  the  Lard  gave  us  the 
land  an'  the  seed,  but  Ee  said  that  a  man  should 
sweat.  Where's  the  sweat  drivin'  round  wi'  two  horses 

95 


cuttin'   the   straw   down   an'   gatherin'   it   again,    wi' 
scarce  a  hand's  turn  i'  the  day's  work  ?  " 

Old  Dodden's  high-pitched  quavering  voice  rose  and 
fell,  mournful  as  he  surveyed  the  present,  vehement  as 
he  recorded  the  heroic  past.  He  spoke  of  the  rural 
exodus  and  shook  his  head  mournfully.  "  We  old 
'uns  were  content  wi'  earth  and  the  open  sky  like 
our  feythers  before  us,  but  wi'  the  children  'tis  first 
machines  to  save  doin'  a  hand's  turn  o'  honest  work, 
an'  then  land  an'  sky  ain't  big  enough  seemin'ly,  nor 
grand  enough ;  it  must  be  town  an'  a  paved  street, 
an'  they  sweat  their  lives  out  atwixt  four  walls  an' 
call  it  seem'  life — 'tis  death  an'  worse  conies  to  the  most 
of  'em.  Ay,  'tis  better  to  stay  by  the  land,  as  the 
Lard  said,  till  time  comes  to  lie  under  it."  I  looked 
away  across  the  field  where  the  hot  air  throbbed  and 
quivered,  and  the  fallen  grass,  robbed  already  of  its 
freshness,  lay  prone  at  the  feet  of  its  upstanding  fellows. 
It  is  quite  useless  to  argue  with  old  Dodden ;  he  only 
shakes  his  head  and  says  firmly,  "  An  old  man,  seventy- 
five  come  Martinmass  knows  more  o'  life  than  a  young 
chap,  stands  ter  reason  " ;  besides,  his  epitome  of  the 
town  life  he  knows  nothing  of  was  a  just  one  as  far  as 
it  went ;  and  his  own  son  is  the  sweeper  of  a  Holborn 
crossing,  and  many  other  things  that  he  should  not  be ; 
but  that  is  the  parson's  secret  and  mine. 
96 


AT    THE    WHITE    GATE 

We  took  rank  again  and  swept  steadily  on  through 
the  hot  still  hours  into  the  evening  shadows,  until 
the  sinking  sun  set  a  Gloria  to  the  psalm  of  another 
working  day.  Only  a  third  of  the  field  lay  mown, 
for  we  were  not  skilled  labourers  to  cut  our  acre  a  day  ; 
I  saw  it  again  that  night  under  the  moonlight  and  the 
starlight,  wrapped  in  a  shroud  of  summer's  mist. 

The  women  joined  us  on  the  third  day  to  begin 
haymaking,  and  the  air  was  fragrant  of  tossed  and 
sun-dried  grass.  One  of  them  walked  apart  from 
the  rest,  without  interest  or  freedom  of  movement ; 
her  face,  sealed  and  impassive,  was  aged  beyond  the 
vigour  of  her  years.  I  knew  the  woman  by  sight, 
arid  her  history  by  hearsay.  We  have  a  code  of  morals 
here — not  indeed  peculiar  to  this  place  or  people — 
that  a  wedding  is  '  respectable '  if  it  precedes  child- 
birth by  a  bare  month,  tolerable,  and  to  be  recognised, 
should  it  succeed  the  same  by  less  than  a  year  (provided 
the  pair  are  not  living  in  the  same  village);  but  the 
child  that  has  never  been  '  fathered '  and  the  wife 
without  a  ring  are  '  anathema,'  and  such  an  one  was 
Elizabeth  Banks.  She  went  away  a  maid  and  came  back 
a  year  ago  with  a  child  and  without  a  name.  Her 
mother  was  dead,  her  father  and  the  village  would  have 
none  of  her :  the  homing  instinct  is  very  strong,  or  she 
would  scarcely  have  returned,  knowing  the  traditions 
G  97 


THE    ROADMENDER 

of  the  place.  Old  Dodden,  seeing  her,  grumbled  to 
me  in  the  rest- time. — "  Can't  think  what  the  farmer 
wants  wi'  Lizzie  Banks  in  'is  field."  "  She  must  live," 
I  said,  "  and  by  all  showing  her  life  is  a  hard  one." 
"  She  'ad  the  makin'  of  'er  bed,"  he  went  on,  obstinately. 
"  What  for  do  she  bring  her  disgrace  home,  wi'  a 
fatherless  brat  for  all  folks  to  see  ?  We  don't  want 
them  sort  in  our  village.  The  Lord's  hand  is  heavy, 
an'  a  brat's  a  curse  that  cannot  be  hid." 

When  tea-time  came  I  crossed  the  field  to  look  for 
a  missing  hone,  and  saw  Elizabeth  Banks  far  from 
the  other  women,  busied  with  a  bundle  under  the  hedge. 
I  passed  close  on  my  search,  and  lo !  the  bundle  was 
a  little  boy.  He  lay  smiling  and  stretching,  fighting 
the  air  with  his  small  pink  fists,  while  the  wind  played 
with  his  curls.  "  A  curse  that  cannot  be  hid,"  old 
Dodden  had  said.  The  mother  knelt  a  moment,  devour- 
ing him  with  her  eyes,  then  snatched  him  to  her  with 
aching  greed  and  covered  him  with  kisses.  I  saw  the 
poor,  plain  face  illumined,  transfigured,  alive  with  a 
mother's  love,  and  remembered  how  the  word  came 
once  to  a  Hebrew  prophet : — 

Say  unto  your  brethren  Ammi,  and  to  your  sisters  Ruhamah. 

The  evening  sky  was  clouding  fast,  the  sound  of  rain 
was  in  the  air  ;  Farmer  Marler  shook  his  head  as  he 

98 


AT    THE    WHITE    GATE 

looked  at  the  grass  lying  in  ordered  rows.  I  was  the 
last  to  leave,  and  as  I  lingered  at  the  gate  drinking 
in  the  scent  of  the  field  and  the  cool  of  the  coming  rain, 
the  first  drops  fell  on  my  upturned  face  and  kissed  the 
poor  dry  swathes  at  my  feet,  and  I  was  glad. 

David,  child  of  the  fields  and  the  sheepfolds,  his 
kingship  laid  aside,  sees  through  the  parted  curtain 
of  the  years  the  advent  of  his  greater  Son,  and  cries 
in  his  psalm  of  the  hilltops,  his  last  prophetic  prayer  : — 

He  shall  come  down  like  rain  upon  the  mown  grass. 

Even  so  He  came,  and  shall  still  come.  Three 
days  ago  the  field,  in  its  pageant  of  fresh  beauty,  with 
shimmering  blades  and  tossing  banners,  greeted  sun 
and  shower  alike  with  joy  for  the  furtherance  of  its 
life  and  purpose  ;  now,  laid  low,  it  hears  the  young  grass 
whisper  the  splendour  of  its  coming  green ;  and  the 
poor  swathes  are  glad  at  the  telling,  but  full  of  grief 
for  their  own  apparent  failure.  Then  in  great  pity 
comes  the  rain,  the  rain  of  summer,  gentle,  refreshing, 
penetrating,  and  the  swathes  are  comforted,  for  they 
know  that  standing  to  greet  or  prostrate  to  suffer,  the 
consolations  of  the  former  and  the  latter  rain  are  still 
their  own,  with  tender  touch  and  cool  caress.  Then, 
once  more  parched  by  the  sun,  they  are  borne  away  to 
the  new  service  their  apparent  failure  has  fitted  them 

99 


THE    ROADMENDER 

for ;  and  perhaps  as  they  wait  in  the  dark  for  the 
unknown  that  is  still  to  come  they  hear  sometimes 
the  call  of  the  distant  rain,  and  at  the  sound  the  dry 
sap  stirs  afresh — they  are  not  forgotten  and  can  wait. 

"  Say  unto  your  sisters  Ruhamah"  cries  the  prophet. 

"  He  shall  come  down  like  rain  upon  the  mown  grass" 
sang  the  poet  of  the  sheepfolds. 

"  My  ways  are  not  your  ways,  saith  the  Lord." 

I  remember  how  I  went  home  along  the  damp  sweet- 
scented  lanes  through  the  grey  mist  of  the  rain,  thinking 
of  the  mown  field  and  Elizabeth  Banks  and  many, 
many  more  ;  and  that  night,  when  the  sky  had  cleared 
and  the  nightingale  sang,  I  looked  out  at  the  moon 
riding  at  anchor,  a  silver  boat  in  a  still  blue  sea  ablaze 
with  the  head-lights  of  the  stars,  and  the  saying  of  the 
herdsman  of  Tekoa  came  to  me — as  it  has  come  often- 
times since  : — 

Seek  Mini  that  inaketh  the  seven  stars  and  Orion,  and  turneth 
the  shadow  of  deatli  into  the  morning,  and  maketh  the  day  dark 
with  ni^lit  ;  that  calleth  for  the  waters  of  the  sea  and  poureth 
them  out  upon  the  face  of  earth ;  the  Lord  is  His  name. 


IOO 


Below  the  low  hedge  lies  pasture  bright  with  buttercups,  where  the 

cattle  feed 


1 100 


II 

THIS  garden  is  an  epitome  of  peace ;  sun  and  wind, 
rain,  flowers,  and  birds  gather  me  into  the  blessedness 
of  their  active  harmony.  The  world  holds  no  wish  for 
me,  now  that  I  have  come  home  to  die  with  my  own 
people,  for  verily  I  think  that  the  sap  of  grass  and 
trees  must  run  in  my  veins,  so  steady  is  their  pull 
upon  my  heart-strings.  London  claimed  all  my 
philosophy,  but  the  country  gives  all,  and  asks  of 
me  only  the  warm  receptivity  of  a  child  in  its 
mother's  arms. 

When  I  lie  in  my  cool  light  room  on  the  garden  level, 
I  look  across  the  bright  grass — il  verde  smcdto — to  a  great 
red  rose  bush  in  lavish  disarray  against  the  dark  cypress. 
Near  by,  amid  a  tangle  of  many-hued  corn-flowers  I 
see  the  promise  of  coming  lilies,  the  sudden  crimson  of 
a  solitary  pseony;  and  in  lowlier  state  against  the 
poor  parched  earth  glow  the  golden  cups  of  the  esch- 
scholtzias.  Beyond  the  low  hedge  lies  pasture  bright 
with  buttercups,  where  the  cattle  feed.  Farther  off, 
where  the  scythe  has  been  busy,  are  sheep,  clean  and 
shorn,  with  merry,  well-grown  lambs ;  and  in  the 

101 


THE    ROADMENDER 

farthest  field  I  can  see  the  great  horses  moving  in 
slow  steady  pace  as  the  farmer  turns  his  furrow. 

The  birds  are  noisy  comrades  and  old  friends,  from 
the  lark  which  chants  the  dew-steeped  morning,  to 
the  nightingale  that  breaks  the  silence  of  the  most 
wonderful  nights.  I  hear  the  wisdom  of  the  rooks 
in  the  great  elms ;  the  lifting  Hit  of  the  linnet,  and 
the  robin's  quaint  little  summer  song.  The  starlings 
chatter  ceaselessly,  their  queer  strident  voices  harsh 
against  the  melodious  gossip  of  the  other  birds ;  the 
martins  shrill  softly  as  they  swoop  to  and  fro  busied 
with  their  nesting  under  the  eaves ;  thrush  and  black- 
bird vie  in  friendly  rivalry  like  the  Meister- singer  of 
old ;  sometimes  I  hear  the  drawling  cry  of  a  peacock 
strayed  from  the  great  house,  or  the  laugh  of  the  wood- 
pecker ;  and  at  night  the  hunting  note  of  the  owl 
reaches  me  as  he  sweeps  by  in  search  of  prey. 

To-day  I  am  out  again ;  and  the  great  sycamore 
showers  honey  and  flowers  on  me  as  I  lie  beneath  it. 
Sometimes  a  bee  falls  like  an  over-ripe  fruit,  and  waits 
awhile  to  clean  his  pollen-coated  legs  ere  he  flies  home 
to  discharge  his  burden.  He  is  too  busy  to  be  friendly, 
but  his  great  velvety  cousin  is  much  more  sociable, 
and  stays  for  a  gentle  rub  between  his  noisy  shimmering 
wings,  and  a  nap  in  the  hollow  of  my  hand,  for  he  is  an 
idle  friendly  soul  with  plenty  of  time  at  his  own  disposal 

102 


The  great  horses  moving  in  slow  steady  pace  as  the  farmer  turns  his 

furrow 


[102 


AT    THE    WHITE    GATE 

and  no  responsibilities.  Looking  across  I  can  watch 
the  martins  at  work ;  they  have  a  starling  and  a 
sparrow  for  near  neighbours  in  the  wooden  gutter. 
One  nest  is  already  complete  all  but  the  coping,  the 
other  two  are  a-building :  I  wonder  whether  I  or  they 
will  be  first  to  go  south  through  the  mist. 

This  great  tree  is  a  world  in  itself,  and  the  denizens 
appear  full  of  curiosity  as  to  the  Gulliver  who  has 
taken  up  his  abode  beneath  it.  Pale  green  caterpillars 
and  spiders  of  all  sizes  come  spinning  down  to  visit 
me,  and  have  to  be  persuaded  with  infinite  difficulty 
to  ascend  their  threads  again.  There  are  flies  with 
beautiful  iridescent  wings,  beetles  of  all  shapes,  some 
of  them  like  tiny  jewels  in  the  sunlight.  Their  nomen- 
clature is  a  sealed  book  to  me ;  of  their  life  and  habits 
I  know  nothing ;  yet  this  is  but  a  little  corner  of  the 
cosmos  I  am  leaving,  and  I  feel  not  so  much  desire 
for  the  beauty  to  come,  as  a  great  longing  to  open  my 
eyes  a  little  wider  during  the  time  which  remains  to  me 
in  this  beautiful  world  of  God's  making,  where  each 
moment  tells  its  own  tale  of  active,  progressive  life 
in  which  there  is  no  undoing.  Nature  knows  naught 
of  the  web  of  Penelope,  that  acme  of  anxious  pathetic 
waiting,  but  goes  steadily  on  in  ever  widening  circle 
towards  the  fulfilment  of  the  mystery  of  God. 

There  are,  I  take  it,  two  master-keys  to  the  secrets 

103 


THE    ROADMENDER 

of  the  universe,  viewed  sub  specie  ceternitatis,  the 
Incarnation  of  God,  and  the  Personality  of  Man ;  with 
these  it  is  true  for  us  as  for  the  pantheistic  little  man 
of  contemptible  speech,  that  "  all  things  are  ours," 
yea,  even  unto  the  third  heaven. 

I  have  lost  my  voracious  appetite  for  books ;  their 
language  is  less  plain  than  scent  and  song  and  the  wind 
in  the  trees ;  and  for  me  the  clue  to  the  next  world 
lies  in  the  wisdom  of  earth  rather  than  in  the  learning 
of  men.  "  Libera  me  ab  fuscina  Hophni"  prayed  the 
good  Bishop  fearful  of  religious  greed.  I  know  too 
much,  not  too  little ;  it  is  realisation  that  I  lack, 
wherefore  I  desire  these  last  days  to  confirm  in  myself 
the  sustaining  goodness  of  God,  the  love  which  is  our 
continuing  city,  the  New  Jerusalem  whose  length, 
breadth,  and  height  are  all  one.  It  is  a  time  of  ex- 
ceeding peace.  There  is  a  place  waiting  for  me  under 
the  firs  in  the  quiet  churchyard  ;  thanks  to  my  poverty 
I  have  no  worldly  anxieties  or  personal  dispositions ; 
and  I  am  rich  in  friends,  many  of  them  unknown  to  me, 
who  lavishly  supply  my  needs  and  make  it  ideal  to  live 
on  the  charity  of  one's  fellow-men.  I  am  most  gladly 
in  debt  to  all  the  world ;  and  to  Earth,  my  mother, 
for  her  great  beauty. 

I  can  never  remember  the  time  when  I  did  not  love 
her,  tliis  mother  of  mine  with  her  wonderful  garments 
104 


There  is  a  place  waiting  for  me  under  the  firs  in  the  quiet  churchyard 


[104 


AT    THE    WHITE    GATE 

and  ordered  loveliness,  her  tender  care  and  patient 
bearing  of  man's  burden.  In  the  earliest  days  of  my 
lonely  childhood  I  used  to  lie  chin  on  hand  amid  the 
milkmaids,  red  sorrel,  and  heavy  spear-grass  listening 
to  her  many  voices,  and  above  all  to  the  voice  of  the 
little  brook  which  ran  through  the  meadows  where  I 
used  to  play :  I  think  it  has  run  through  my  whole 
life  also,  to  lose  itself  at  last,  not  in  the  great  sea  but 
in  the  river  that  maketh  glad  the  City  of  God.  Valley 
and  plain,  mountain  and  fruitful  field ;  the  lark's  song 
and  the  speedwell  in  the  grass  ;  surely  a  man  need  not 
sigh  for  greater  loveliness  until  he  has  read  something 
more  of  this  living  letter,  and  knelt  before  that  earth 
of  which  he  is  the  only  confusion. 

It  is  a  grave  matter  that  the  word  religion  holds  such 
sway  among  us,  making  the  very  gap  seem  to  yawn 
again  which  the  Incarnation  once  and  for  ever  filled  full. 
We  have  banished  the  protecting  gods  that  ruled  in 
river  and  mountain,  tree  and  grove  ;  we  have  gainsayed 
for  the  most  part  folk-lore  and  myth,  superstition  and 
fairy-tale,  evil  only  in  their  abuse.  We  have  done 
away  with  mystery,  or  named  it  deceit.  All  this  we 
have  done  in  an  enlightened  age,  but  despite  this 
policy  of  destruction  we  have  left  ourselves  a  belief, 
the  grandest  and  most  simple  the  world  has  ever  known, 
which  sanctifies  the  water  that  is  shed  by  every  passing 

105 


THE    ROADMENDER 

cloud ;  and  gathers  up  in  its  great  central  act  vine- 
yard and  cornfield,  proclaiming  them  to  be  that  Life 
of  the  world  without  which  a  man  is  dead  while  he 
liveth.  Further,  it  is  a  belief  whose  foundations  are 
the  most  heavenly  mystery  of  the  Trinity,  but  whose 
centre  is  a  little  Child :  it  sets  a  price  upon  the  head 
of  the  sparrow,  and  reckons  the  riches  of  this  world 
at  their  true  value  ;  it  points  to  a  way  of  holiness  where 
the  fool  shall  not  err,  and  the  sage  may  find  the 
realisation  of  his  far-seeking ;  and  yet,  despite  its 
inclusiveness,  it  is  a  belief  which  cannot  save  the  birds 
from  destruction,  the  silent  mountains  from  advertise- 
ment, or  the  stream  from  pollution,  in  an  avowedly 
Christian  land.  John  Ruskin  scolded  and  fought 
and  did  yeoman  service,  somewhat  hindered  by  his 
over-good  conceit  of  himself ;  but  it  is  not  the  worship 
of  beauty  we  need  so  much  as  the  beauty  of  holiness. 
Little  by  little  the  barrier  grows  and  '  religion '  becomes 
a  rule  of  life,  not  life  itself,  although  the  Bride  stands 
ready  to  interpret,  likened  in  her  loveliness  to  the  chief 
treasures  of  her  handmaid — Earth.  There  is  more 
truth  in  the  believing  cry,  "  Come  from  thy  white 
cliffs,  0  Pan !  "  than  in  the  religion  that  measures 
a  man's  life  by  the  letter  of  the  Ten  Command- 
ments, and  erects  itself  as  judge  and  ruler  over  him, 
instead  of  throwing  open  the  gate  of  the  garden 
1 06 


AT    THE    WHITE    GATE 

where    God    walks    with    man    from    morning    until 
morning. 

As  I  write  the  sun  is  setting ;  in  the  pale  radiance 
of  the  sky  above  his  glory  there  dawns  the  evening  star  ; 
and  earth  like  a  tired  child  turns  her  face  to  the  bosom 
of  the  night. 


107 


Ill 

ONCE  again  I  have  paid  a  rare  visit  to  my  tree  to  find 
many  things  changed  since  my  last  sojourn  there. 
The  bees  are  silent,  for  the  honey-laden  flowers  of 
the  sycamore  are  gone  and  in  their  place  hang  dainty 
two-fold  keys.  The  poplar  has  lost  its  metallic  shimmer, 
the  chestnut  its  tall  white  candles ;  and  the  sound 
of  the  wind  in  the  fully-leaved  branches  is  like  the 
sighing  of  the  sea.  The  martins'  nests  are  finished, 
and  one  is  occupied  by  a  shrill-voiced  brood ;  but  for 
the  most  part  the  birds'  parental  cares  are  over,  and 
the  nestlings  in  bold  flight  no  longer  flutter  on  inefficient 
wings  across  the  lawn  with  clamorous,  open  bill.  The 
robins  show  promise  of  their  ruddy  vests,  the  slim  young 
thrush  is  diligently  practising  maturer  notes,  and  soon 
Maid  June  will  have  fled. 

It  is  such  a  wonderful  world  that  I  cannot  find  it 
in  my  heart  to  sigh  for  fresh  beauty  amid  these  glories 
of  the  Lord  on  which  I  look,  seeing  men  as  trees  walk- 
ing, in  my  material  impotence  which  awaits  the  final 
anointing.  The  marigolds  with  their  orange  suns, 
the  lilies'  white  flame,  the  corncockle's  blue  crown 
108 


AT    THE    WHITE    GATE 

of  many  flowers,  the  honeysuckle's  horn  of  fragrance — • 
I  can  paraphrase  them,  name,  class,  dissect  them ; 
and  then,  save  for  the  purposes  of  human  intercourse, 
I  stand  where  I  stood  before,  my  world  bounded  by  my 
capacity,  the  secret  of  colour  and  fragrance  still  kept. 
It  is  difficult  to  believe  that  the  second  lesson  will  not  be 
the  sequence  of  the  first,  and  death  prove  a  "  feast 
of  opening  eyes  "  to  ah1  these  wonders,  instead  of  the 
heavy-lidded  slumber  to  which  we  so  often  liken  it. 
"  Earth  to  earth  ?  "  Yes,  "  dust  thou  art,  and  unto 
dust  thou  shalt  return,"  but  what  of  the  rest  ?  What 
of  the  folded  grave  clothes,  and  the  Forty  Days  ? 
If  the  next  state  be,  as  it  well  might,  space  of  four 
dimensions,  and  the  first  veil  which  will  lift  for  me  be 
the  material  one,  then  the  "  other  "  world  which  is 
hidden  from  our  grosser  material  organism  will  lie 
open,  and  declare  still  further  to  my  widening  eyes 
and  unstopped  ears  the  glory  and  purpose  of  the  mani- 
fold garment  of  God.  Knowledge  will  give  place 
to  understanding  in  that  second  chamber  of  the  House 
of  Wisdom  and  Love.  Revelation  is  always  measured 
by  capacity  :  "  Open  thy  mouth  wide,"  and  it  shall  be 
filled  with  a  satisfaction  that  in  itself  is  desire. 

There  is  a  child  here,  a  happy  quiet  little  creature 
holding  gently  to  its  two  months  of  life.  Sometimes 
they  lay  it  beside  me,  I  the  more  helpless  of  the  two — 

109 


THE    ROADMENDER 

perhaps  the  more  ignorant — and  equally  dependent 
for  the  supply  of  my  smallest  need.  I  feel  indecently 
large  as  I  survey  its  minute  perfections  and  the  tiny 
balled  fist  lying  in  my  great  palm.  The  little  creature 
fixes  me  with  the  wise  wide  stare  of  a  soul  in  advance 
of  its  medium  of  expression ;  and  I,  gazing  back  at 
the  mystery  in  those  eyes,  feel  the  thrill  of  contact 
between  my  worn  and  sin-stained  self  and  the  innocence 
of  a  little  white  child.  It  is  wonderful  to  watch  a 
woman's  rapturous  familiarity  with  these  newcomers. 
A  man's  love  has  far  more  awe  in  it,  and  the  passionate 
animal  instinct  of  defence  is  wanting  in  him.  "  A 
woman  shall  be  saved  through  the  child-bearing,"  said 
St  Paul ;  not  necessarily  her  own,  but  by  participa- 
tion in  the  great  act  of  motherhood  which  is  the  crown 
and  glory  of  her  sex.  She  is  the  "  prisoner  of  love," 
caught  in  a  net  of  her  own  weaving ;  held  fast  by  little 
hands  which  rule  by  impotence,  pursued  by  feet  the 
swifter  for  their  faltering. 

It  seems  incredible  that  this  is  what  a  woman  will 
barter  for  the  right  to  "  live  her  own  life  " — surely 
the  most  empty  of  desires.  Man — vir,  woman — jemina, 
go  to  make  up  the  man — homo.  There  can  be  no 
comparison,  no  rivalry  between  them ;  they  are  the 
complement  of  each  other,  and  a  little  child  shall  lead 
them.  It  is  easy  to  understand  that  desire  to  shelter 
no 


AT    THE    WHITE    GATE 

under  the  dear  mantle  of  motherhood  which  has  led 
to  one  of  the  abuses  of  modern  Romanism.  I  met 
an  old  peasant  couple  at  Bornhofen  who  had  tramped 
many  weary  miles  to  the  famous  shrine  of  Our  Lady 
to  plead  for  their  only  son.  They  had  a  few  pence 
saved  for  a  candle,  and  afterwards  when  they  told  me 
their  tale  the  old  woman  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief,  "  Es 
wird  bald  gut  gehen  :  Die  da,  Sie  versteht,"  and  I  saw 
her  later  paying  a  farewell  visit  to  the  great  under- 
standing Mother  whom  she  could  trust.  Superstitious 
misapprehension  if  you  will,  but  also  the  recognition 
of  a  divine  principle. 

It  was  Behmen,  I  believe,  who  cried  with  the  breath 
of  inspiration,  "  Only  when  I  know  God  shall  I  know 
myself  " ;  and  so  man  remains  the  last  of  all  the  riddles, 
to  be  solved  it  may  be  only  in  Heaven's  perfection 
and  the  light  of  the  Beatific  Vision.  "  Know  thyself  " 
is  a  vain  legend,  the  more  so  when  emphasised  by  a 
skull ;  and  so  I  company  with  a  friend  and  a  stranger, 
and  looking  across  at  the  white  gate  I  wonder  concerning 
the  quiet  pastures  and  still  waters  that  lie  beyond, 
even  as  Brother  Ambrose  wondered  long  years  ago 
in  the  monastery  by  the  forest. 

The  Brother  Ambrose  was  ever  a  saintly  man  approved  of  God 
and  beloved  by  the  Brethren.  To  him  one  night,  as  he  lay  abed 
in  the  dormitory,  came  the  word  of  the  Lord,  saying,  "Come, 

III 


THE    ROADMENDER 

and  I  will  show  thee  the  Bride,  the  Lamb's  wife."  And  Brother 
Ambrose  arose  and  was  carried  to  a  great  and  high  mountain, 
even  as  in  the  Vision  of  Blessed  John.  'Twas  a  still  night  of 
many  stars,  and  Brother  Ambrose,  looking  up,  saw  a  radiant  path 
in  the  heavens ;  and  lo !  the  stars  gathered  themselves  together 
on  either  side  until  they  stood  as  walls  of  light,  and  the  four  winds 
lapped  him  about  as  in  a  mantle  and  bore  him  towards  the 
wondrous  gleaming  roadway.  Then  between  the  stars  came  the 
Holy  City  with  roof  and  pinnacle  aflame,  and  walls  aglow  with 
such  colours  as  no  earthly  limner  dreams  of,  and  much  gold. 
Brother  Ambrose  beheld  the  Gates  of  Pearl,  and  by  every  gate 
an  angel  with  wings  of  snow  and  fire,  and  a  face  no  man  dare 
look  on  because  of  its  exceeding  radiance. 

Then  as  Brother  Ambrose  stretched  out  his  arms  because  of  his 
great  longing,  a  little  grey  cloud  came  out  of  the  north  and  hung 
between  the  walls  of  light,  so  that  he  no  longer  beheld  the  Vision, 
but  only  heard  a  sound  as  of  a  great  multitude  crying  'Alleluia' ; 
and  suddenly  the  winds  came  about  him  again,  and  lo !  he  found 
himself  in  his  bed  in  the  dormitory,  and  it  was  midnight,  for 
the  bell  was  ringing  to  Matins ;  and  he  rose  and  went  down 
with  the  rest.  But  when  the  Brethren  left  the  choir  Brother 
Ambrose  stayed  fast  in  his  place,  hearing  and  seeing  nothing 
because  of  the  Vision  of  God ;  and  at  Lauds  they  found  him  and 
told  the  Prior. 

He  questioned  Brother  Ambrose  of  the  matter,  and  when  he 
heard  the  Vision  bade  him  limn  the  Holy  City  even  as  he  had 
^een  it ;  and  the  Precentor  gave  him  uterine  vellum  and  much 
fine  gold  and  what  colours  he  asked  for  the  work.  Then  Brother 
Ambrose  limned  a  wondrous  fair  city  of  gold  with  turrets  and 
spires  ;  and  he  inlaid  blue  for  the  sapphire,  and  green  for  the 
emerald,  and  vermilion  where  the  city  seemed  aflame  with  the 
glory  of  God  ;  but  the  angels  he  could  not  limn,  nor  could  he  set 
the  rest  of  the  colours  as  he  saw  them,  nor  the  wall  of  stars  on 

\  12 


AT    THE    WHITE    GATE 

either  hand ;  and  Brother  Ambrose  fell  sick  because  of  the  ex- 
ceeding great  longing  he  had  to  limn  the  Holy  City,  and  was  very 
sad  ;  but  the  Prior  bade  him  thank  God,  and  remember  the 
infirmity  of  the  flesh,  which,  like  the  little  grey  cloud,  veiled 
Jerusalem  to  his  sight. 

As  I  write  the  monastery  bell  hard  by  rings  out 
across  the  lark's  song.  They  still  have  time  for  visions 
behind  those  guarding  walls,  but  for  most  of  us  it  is 
not  so.  We  let  slip  the  ideal  for  what  we  call  the  real, 
and  the  golden  dreams  vanish  while  we  clutch  at  phan- 
toms :  we  speed  along  life's  pathway,  counting  to  the 
full  the  sixty  minutes  of  every  hour,  yet  the  race  is 
not  to  the  swift  nor  the  battle  to  the  strong.  Lying 
here  in  this  quiet  backwater  it  is  hard  to  believe  that 
the  world  without  is  turbulent  with  storm  and  stress 
and  the  ebb  and  flow  of  uncertain  tides.  The  little 
yellow  cat  rolling  on  its  back  among  the  daisies,  the 
staid  tortoise  making  a  stately  meal  off  the  buttercups 
near  me,  these  are  great  events  in  this  haven  of  peace. 
And  yet,  looking  back  to  the  working  days,  I  know  how 
much  goodness  and  loving  kindness  there  is  under 
the  froth  and  foam.  If  we  do  not  know  ourselves 
we  most  certainly  do  not  know  our  brethren :  that 
revelation  awaits  us,  it  may  be,  first  in  Heaven.  To 
have  faith  is  to  create ;  to  have  hope  is  to  call  down 
blessing  ;  to  have  love  is  to  work  miracles.  Above  all 
H  113 


THE    ROADMENDER 

let  us  see  visions,  visions  of  colour  and  light,  of  green 
fields  and  broad  rivers,  of  palaces  laid  with  fair  colours, 
and  gardens  where  a  place  is  found  for  rosemary  and  rue. 
It  is  our  prerogative  to  be  dreamers,  but  there  will 
always  be  men  ready  to  offer  us  death  for  our  dreams. 
And  if  it  must  be  so  let  us  choose  death ;  it  is  gain, 
not  loss,  and  the  gloomy  portal  when  we  reach  it  is 
but  a  white  gate,  the  white  gate  maybe  we  have  known 
all  our  lives  barred  by  the  tendrils  of  the  woodbine. 


114 


IV 

RAIN,  rain,  rain :  the  little  flagged  path  outside  my 
window  is  a  streaming  way,  where  the  coming  raindrops 
meet  again  the  grey  clouds  whose  storehouse  they  have 
but  just  now  left.  The  grass  grows  greener  as  I  watch 
it,  the  burnt  patches  fade,  a  thousand  thirsty  heads  are 
uplifted  for  the  cooling  draught. 

The  great  thrush  that  robs  the  raspberry  canes  is 
busy  ;  yesterday  he  had  little  but  dust  for  his  guerdon, 
but  now  fresh,  juicy  fruit  repays  him  as  he  swings 
to  and  fro  on  the  pliant  branches.  The  blackbirds 
and  starlings  find  the  worms  an  easy  prey — poor 
brother  worm  ever  ready  for  sacrifice.  I  can  hear 
the  soft  expectant  chatter  of  the  family  of  martins 
under  the  roof ;  there  will  be  good  hunting,  and  they 
know  it,  for  the  flies  are  out  when  the  rain  is  over, 
and  there  are  clamorous  mouths  awaiting.  My  little 
brown  brothers,  the  sparrows,  remain  my  chief  delight. 
Of  all  the  birds  these  nestle  closest  to  my  heart,  be  they 
grimy  little  cockneys  or  their  trim  and  dainty  country 
cousins.  They  come  day  by  day  for  their  meed  of 
crumbs  spread  for  them  outside  my  window,  and  at 
H*  115 


THE    ROADMENDER 

this  season  they  eat  leisurely  and  with  good  appetite, 
for  there  are  no  hungry  babies  pestering  to  be  fed. 
Very  early  in  the  morning  I  hear  the  whirr  and  rustle 
of  eager  wings,  and  the  tap,  tap,  of  little  beaks  upon 
the  stone.  The  sound  carries  me  back,  for  it  was 
the  first  to  greet  me  when  I  rose  to  draw  water  and 
gather  kindling  in  my  roadmender  days ;  and  if  I 
slip  back  another  decade  they  survey  me,  reproving 
my  laziness,  from  the  foot  of  the  narrow  bed  in  my 
little  attic  overseas. 

Looking  along  the  roadway  that  we  have  travelled 
we  see  the  landmarks,  great  and  small,  which  have 
determined  the  direction  of  our  feet.  For  some  those 
of  childhood  stand  out  above  all  the  rest ;  but  I  re- 
member few  notable  ones,  and  those  few  the  emphatic 
chord  of  the  universe,  rather  than  any  commerce  with 
my  fellows.  There  was  the  night  of  my  great  dis- 
appointment, when  I  was  borne  from  my  comfortable 
bed  to  see  the  wonders  of  the  moon's  eclipse.  Dis- 
appointment was  so  great  that  it  sealed  my  lips ;  but, 
once  back  on  my  pillow,  I  sobbed  for  grief  that  I  had 
seen  a  wonder  so  far  below  my  expectation.  Then  there 
was  a  night  at  Whitby,  when  the  wind  made  speech 
impossible,  and  the  seas  rushed  up  and  over  the  great 
lighthouse  like  the  hungry  spirits  of  the  deep.  I 
like  better  to  remember  the  scent  of  the  first  cowslip 
116 


AT    THE    WHITE    GATE 

field  under  the  warm  side  of  the  hedge,  when  I  sang 
to  myself  for  pure  joy  of  their  colour  and  fragrance. 
Again,  there  were  the  bluebells  in  the  deserted  quarry 
like  the  backwash  of  a  southern  sea,  and  below  them 
the  miniature  forest  of  sheltering  bracken  with  its 
quaint  conceits ;  and,  crowned  above  all,  the  day 
I  stood  on  Watcombe  Down,  and  looked  across  a  stretch 
of  golden  gorse  and  new-turned  blood-red  field,  the  green 
of  the  headland,  and  beyond,  the  sapphire  sea. 

Time  sped,  and  there  came  a  day  when  I  first  set 
foot  on  German  soil  and  felt  the  throb  of  its  paternity, 
the  beat  of  our  common  life.  England  is  my  mother, 
and  most  dearly  do  I  love  her  swelling  breasts  and  wind- 
swept, salt-strewn  hair.  Scotland  gave  me  my  name, 
with  its  haunting  derivation  handed  down  by  brave 
men  ;  but  Germany  has  always  been  to  me  the  Father- 
land par  excellence.  True,  my  love  is  limited  to  the 
southern  provinces,  with  their  mediaeval  memories ; 
for  the  progressive  guttural  north  I  have  little  sympathy, 
but  the  Rhine  claimed  me  from  the  first,  calling,  calling, 
with  that  wonderful  voice  which  speaks  of  death  and 
life,  of  chivalry  and  greed  of  gold.  If  you  would 
have  the  river's  company  you  should  wander,  a  happj 
solitary,  along  its  banks,  watching  its  gleaming  current 
in  the  early  morning,  its  golden  glory  as  it  answers 
the  farewell  of  parting  day.  Then,  in  the  silence  of 

117 


THE    ROADMENDER 

the  night,  you  can  hear  the  wash  and  eddy  calling 
one  to  another,  count  the  heart-beats  of  the  great 
bearer  of  burdens,  and  watch  in  the  moonlight  the 
sisters  of  the  mist  as  they  lament  with  wringing  hands 
the  days  that  are  gone. 

The  forests,  too,  are  ready  with  story  hid  in  the 
fastness  of  their  solitude,  and  it  is  a  joy  to  think  that 
those  great  pines,  pointing  ever  upwards,  go  for  the 
most  part  to  carry  the  sails  of  great  ships  seeking  afar 
under  open  sky.  The  forest  holds  other  wonders 
still.  It  seems  but  last  night  that  I  wandered  down 
the  road  which  led  to  the  little  unheeded  village  where 
I  had  made  my  temporary  home.  The  warm-scented 
breath  of  the  pines  and  the  stillness  of  the  night  wrapped 
me  in  great  content ;  the  summer  lightning  leapt 
in  a  lambent  arch  across  the  east,  and  the  stars,  seen 
dimly  through  the  sombre  tree  crests,  were  outrivalled 
by  the  glow-worms  which  shone  in  countless  points 
of  light  from  bank  and  hedge ;  even  two  charcoal- 
burners,  who  passed  with  friendly  greeting,  had 
wreathed  their  hats  with  the  living  flame.  The  tiny 
shifting  lamps  were  everywhere ;  pale  yellow,  purely 
white,  or  green  as  the  underside  of  a  northern  wave. 
By  day  but  an  ugly,  repellent  worm ;  but  darkness 
comes,  and  lo,  a  star  alight.  Nature  is  full  for  us  of 
seeming  inconsistencies  and  glad  surprises.  The  world's 
118 


AT    THE    WHITE    GATE 

asleep,  say  you ;  on  your  ear  falls  the  nightingale's 
song  and  the  stir  of  living  creatures  in  bush  and  brake. 
The  mantle  of  night  falls,  and  all  unattended  the  wind 
leaps  up  and  scatters  the  clouds  which  veil  the  constant 
stars ;  or  in  the  hour  of  the  great  dark,  dawn  parts 
the  curtain  with  the  long  foregleam  of  the  coming  day. 
It  is  hard  to  turn  one's  back  on  night  with  her  kiss 
of  peace  for  tired  eye-lids,  the  kiss  which  is  not  sleep 
but  its  neglected  forerunner.  I  made  my  way  at  last 
down  to  the  vine-girt  bridge  asleep  under  the  stars 
and  up  the  winding  stairs  of  the  old  grey  tower ;  and 
a  stone's-throw  away  the  Rhine  slipped  quietly  past 
in  the  midsummer  moonlight. 

Switzerland  came  in  its  turn,  unearthly  in  its  white 
loveliness  and  glory  of  lake  and  sky.  But  perhaps 
the  landmark  which  stands  out  most  clearly  is  the 
solitary  blue  gentian  which  I  found  in  the  short  slippery 
grass  of  the  Rigi,  gazing  up  at  the  sky  whose  blue 
could  not  hope  to  excel  it.  It  was  my  first ;  and  what 
need  of  another,  for  finding  one  I  had  gazed  into  the 
mystery  of  all.  This  side  the  Pass,  snow  and  the  blue 
of  heaven  ;  later  I  entered  Italy  through  fields  of  many- 
hued  lilies,  her  past  glories  blazoned  in  the  flowers 
of  the  field. 

Now  it  is  a  strangely  uneventful  road  that  leads 
to  my  White  Gate.  Each  day  questions  me  as  it  passes  ; 

119 


THE    ROADMENDER 

each  day  makes  answer  for  me  "  not  yet."  There 
is  no  material  preparation  to  be  made  for  this  journey 
of  mine  into  a  far  country — a  simple  fact  which  adds 
to  the  '  unknowableness '  of  the  other  side.  Do  I 
travel  alone,  or  am  I  one  of  a  great  company, 
swift  yet  unhurried  in  their  passage  ?  The  voices 
of  Penelope's  suitors  shrilled  on  the  ears  of  Ulysses, 
as  they  journeyed  to  the  nether- world,  like  nocturnal 
birds  and  bats  in  the  inarticulateness  of  their  speech. 
They  had  abused  the  gift,  and  fled  self-condemned. 
Maybe  silence  commends  itself  as  most  suitable  for 
the  wayfarers  towards  the  sunrise — silence  because 
they  seek  the  Word — but  for  those  hastening  towards 
the  confusion  they  have  wrought  there  falls  already 
the  sharp  oncoming  of  the  curse. 

While  we  are  still  here  the  language  of  worship  seems 
far,  and  yet  lies  very  nigh ;  for  what  better  note  can 
our  frail  tongues  lisp  than  the  voice  of  wind  and  sea, 
river  and  stream,  those  grateful  servants  giving  all 
and  asking  nothing,  the  soft  whisper  of  snow  and  rain 
eager  to  replenish,  or  the  thunder  proclaiming  a  majesty 
too  great  for  utterance  ?  Here,  too,  stands  the  angel 
with  the  censer  gathering  up  the  fragrance  of  teeming 
earth  and  forest-tree,  of  flower  and  fruit,  and  sweetly 
pungent  herb  distilled  by  sun  and  rain  for  joyful 
use.  Here,  too,  come  acolytes  lighting  the  dark  with 

120 


AT    THE    WHITE    GATE 

tapers — sun,  moon,  and  stars — gifts  of  the  Lord  that 
His  sanctuary  may  stand  ever  served. 

It  lies  here  ready  to  our  hand,  this  life  of  adoration 
which  we  needs  must  live  hand  in  hand  with  earth, 
for  has  she  not  borne  the  curse  with  us  ?  But  beyond 
the  white  gate  and  the  trail  of  woodbine  falls  the  silence 
greater  than  speech,  darkness  greater  than  light,  a 
pause  of  "  a  little  while  " ;  and  then  the  touch  of 
that  healing  garment  as  we  pass  to  the  King  in  His 
beauty,  in  a  land  from  which  there  is  no  return. 

At  the  gateway  then  I  cry  you  farewell. 


121 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  AT  LOS  ANGELES 

THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below 


DEC  5    193$ 


CALIFOKMIi 


PR 

6003   The  roadmender 


PR 

6003 

B226r 


ooo^vinn 


